No Plan, No Back Up, No Choice
by 1arigato
Summary: The new IMF secretary plans to take apart the division and put it together into what will give him power, starting with killing all agents who threaten his plan. Benji runs to a new life in London, awaiting the day the team reunites and saves their country. First, however, there's a consulting detective who needs someone to share a flat with. K plus to be safe!
1. Introduction

**Introduction**

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Benjamin Dunn created John Watson.

Benji's birth father died when he was young, and his mother, Sierra, had a marriage with a man by the name of Charlie Watson for a few years before they divorced, Sierra taking Benji with her to the States. Benji never knew Charlie well, and Charlie him. Benji had been attending uni the four years his father was Charlie, so they didn't interact much, and Sierra hadn't done anything of it when she discovered Benji was taking difficult courses; with a new father in his life and exhausting classes, Sierra didn't want to pressure her son and possibly stress him. In America, Benji captured IMF's attention through a little prank when he cleverly set up an official-looking lottery award for his favourite professor back at uni so that the old man could take a break and tour all of America's museums for free. IMF finally found a hole in the system that stated _no_, the Museum and Education-Concerning Council hadn't informed America's museums that a special guest was coming and that five-star booking and attention was required—the Council didn't even _exist_—and the secret government division spent weeks tracking down who had manipulated the nation's communication so cleverly until Benji found himself on a walk to his apartment—just a city away from his mother—before being kidnapped and forced into a tinted, suspiciously government, car. He was recruited in IMF just three days later.

What mattered now, though, was Benji's cover. As it had been years since Charlie had seen Benji, the spy found it easy enough to make his stepfather believe Sierra's first and only son was named Jonathan Hamish Watson. Charlie distantly remembered Sierra's kid had a three-syllable name, and the surname made sense if "Jonathan" had, quite possibly, wanted to keep the name of the only man who was officially his father while Jonathan was alive, so the Englishman didn't question it. His daughter–Harriet, though she insisted to be addressed as Harry–who he had with his new wife accepted Jonathan easily enough, most likely excited with the prospect of experiencing life with a sibling, and she quickly established his nickname: John. This was all when Benji found the necessity of having a "safe" profile to turn to just in case extreme emergencies rose up, thus Jonathan Hamish Watson was created the same year Benji joined IMF.

Now, a year after the Ghost Protocol Mission, the new secretary in charge of IMF took advantage of his position to make the previous division he was in charge of the big dog in the lot. IMF agents were "requested" to leave, and they mysteriously disappeared one by one. The team was one of the first to be asked, and Ethan did all he could to delay the inevitable, so when the team realised the new secretary really didn't have the kindest of intentions, they hurriedly concocted a plan to alert the higher ups of the government; if IMF lost its element of secrecy and revealed to the public in result of the new secretary's actions, certain parties would rush to prepare themselves of technologically and intellectually-advanced American agents, and the world would hasten to keep up with the development. It would be like the Cold War all over again, only worse.

So when the Secretary sent men from his last division to get rid of the team, Ethan, Jane, Will, and Benji were forced to split up and scatter, disappearing to whatever populous place and cover they could turn to. Clint Barton, who ran away from the army after being laughed at as an ex-circus "freak," asked to join SHIELD, to which they accepted him soon enough, especially with his expert marksmen skills. Matthew Knight contacted some friends from elsewhere in the American government and went on a mission for them to make his cover more genuine. Mikka Von settled in a neighbourhood, though her neighbours had no idea she was keeping an eye out for any major illegal acts from them, as old habits are hard to break. All the while, more than 5800 kilometres across the Atlantic Ocean, John Watson returned from the war in Afghanistan.

Benji had called his stepfather and stepsister, explaining he was coming back to England. Just a few months ago, Sierra Dunn had died in a car crash in the States—_America_—and things were a little rocky between "John" and Charlie, but Benji needed to disappear, if for a while, and family was family. If Charlie or Harry ever looked at Sierra's car, they'd find bullet holes, but Benji couldn't bear feeling any more guilty that his occupation had been the reason she died, so they were none the wiser. The three of them learned to move on after the loss; Charlie's new wife and Harry's mother, Lisa, helped Charlie greatly, but with Harry busy going to uni, there wasn't much communication between the Watsons and "John." Benji couldn't talk with them much over the phone either since he was a little tied up himself, preventing nuclear disasters and WWIII with the team, but he would send texts or emails whenever he could. Now, though, when he needed to hide, England sounded like the best place to blend in and avoid detection of certain parties, and his family connections could maybe be mended and they would certainly help. Harry had kindly mailed to Benji's hotel address her iPhone when he arrived in London back from Afghanistan—partly true this time, since the team recently came back from a mission there before being forced to scatter and hide—and that bond seemed to be on its path to healing, but Benji stood unsure of what he had with his stepfather, Charlie.

His life was just a mess, presently, but Benji hoped all would be mended, one day. The team could be back together without worries of betrayal from their own division, Benji could tell his only family left that he wasn't really John Watson, and finally, after ageing alongside his team, having grandkids, and becoming a grumpy old man, he could pass away and see his mother again. All of that would have to wait, however, for Benji hadn't taken into consideration that hiding from his own government division didn't mean he couldn't have some good adventure, and a certain consultant detective was practically the definition of _adventure_.

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Disclaimer: I don't own Mission Impossible nor BBC's Sherlock. Yes, there was an allude to the Avengers there, you didn't imagine it. I don't own Marvel's Avengers either, unfortunately.


	2. Day One

**Day One (A Study in Pink)**

xxx Blogging xxx

Benji stared at the therapist Harry insisted Benji take as she wanted to make sure her stepbrother get accustomed to civilian life after the war. "How's your blog going?" the woman asked. Benji blinked, before stuttering. "Uh, yeah, good. Very good." "You haven't written a word, have you?" It didn't take genius to figure that out, but while Benji could work magic with technology in his free time, blogging wasn't really his cup of tea. Without breaking contact from his therapist, the undercover agent said, "You just wrote 'still has trust issues.'" The woman looked ready to sigh, a hint of surprise at his catching that without her noticing, but dismissed it as the result of soldier habits and war instincts. "And you read my writing upside-down," she continued, before really sighing. "You see what I mean? John–" That wasn't his name, but Benji needed to get used to it; this was for the team, and he repeated it like a mantra whenever people addressed him and he acted in a way that was all _wrong_– "you're a soldier." How true _that_ was. World-saving, learning-medical-skills-because-his-team-was-a-bunch-of-daredevils hacker-cum-secret agent was more like it, but why bother correcting her? The therapist was still talking. "It's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life, and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you." Ha. If Benji wrote a blog about life with the team, he'd get more reviews than the Harry Potter series, and that was just a blog. Imagine the _novels_ he could write. He'd have to mention their first mission together that included pranking professional assassins in the world's tallest building, the time in the Amazon when Benji lost his computer to an alligator and nearly lost an arm along with it, an assignment in Asia where the Englishman tested his skills against advanced technology under a countdown since the others were in trouble…. Instead, Benji went along with, "Nothing every happens to me." A twitch of his lips followed up his words.

xxx Nothing Means Everything xxx

"Benji! Benjamin Watson!"

Said ginger nearly struck at the speaker with his cane before he recognised the man who addressed him. "Mike?" His old classmate from college smiled, gesturing to a park bench for the two of them to sit down in obvious sign of wanting to catch up. The brunette gained a few pounds the last Benji saw him, and Harry no doubt contacted Mike to help Benji's accustoming to normal life, thus his using the surname Watson. Benji's old classmate remembered enough to call him by his real name, however, and Benji wished to fix that quickly. "My name's John, Jonathan Watson." Here, Benji plastered on the most persuasive and convincing smile he knew, courtesy to time spent being influenced by Ethan. "Remember?" Mike's brows furrowed as Benji sat himself down, mindful of his psychosomatic limp; without any adrenaline-pumping activities that wouldn't give away his civilian cover, the ginger would have to deal with it. Meanwhile, his old classmate joined him with bemusement. "I was so sure it was Benji," the brunette apologised, obviously searching deep into his memories, but unable to piece together if it was but his imagination. "It's such a unique name, you see." Benji nodded in understanding, though he was grateful Mike would then on address him as John.

"What are you doing around here?" Mike asked first, his wave of confusement having passed. "I'm finding a place to stay in London." The undercover spy could keep an eye on certain parties via technology and spying by hiding in a populated area, and Benji was a normal-looking enough individual to blend in easily. "Harry's a little busy, though, especially with her recent divorce, and I don't want to bother Charlie." "You can always get a flat share," Mike shared. From the quick quirk of his lips, Benji guessed he knew of someone in a similar situation as Benji, but the undercover-agent was unsure about the idea; it would be less easy to spy when living with someone, and besides…. "Who would want to be my flatmate?" Mike laughed, though not just from distantly remembering Benji's adventurous times back at uni. The ginger raised a brow. "What?" he nearly pouted. Mike peered at him through his glasses. "You're the second person to ask me that today." Benji was almost nervous to ask. "Who's the first?"

xxx The First xxx

Benji observed the laboratory, amused at how primitive it looked compared to his toys back home—no, _London_ was his home now, though the machinery he saw definitely didn't hold a candle to IMF's resources—and he commented with, "A bit different from my time." Mike nodded in acknowledgement that he heard Benji while the bigger man took a seat, allowing the undercover agent to look about the room as the door closed behind them. Benji brought his eyes to notice the individual caught staring at Benji from the well plates and a microscope, but the black-haired man quickly diverted his gaze, bringing Benji to wonder what the man in question had been looking for. Focused on looking into the microscope, the unnamed male addressed Benji's old schoolmate. "Mike, can I borrow your phone?" Said brunette gave an exasperated look. "What's wrong with the landline?" "I prefer text," the man stated simply, and Mike patted his pocket. "Well, mine's in my coat." Mike had set his coat down at the front desk when he explained he and Benji were there to see "Holmes," who Benji guessed was the individual concerned with a flat share, and his old classmate had forgotten his coat in the process. Benji saw no harm in pointing it out—he knew there was only a 15% chance or lower anyone who happened to enter the morgue had incentive to steal a harmless-looking coat. Ugh, statistics. Will must have been rubbing off on him.

"Here, you can borrow mine," Benji offered. The encrypted important stuff were in his real personal cellphone buried next to his dad's tombstone, anyway. The iPhone Ethan gave the team was special, and contained quite possibly everything highly classified in Benji's life—that was to say, _everything_—so Benji decided he'd have settled down well enough before fetching his black iPhone. The black-haired man met Benji's eyes again, an alarming shade of green connecting with crystal blue ones. "…Thanks." The man got up from his stool and accepted the iPhone. While he texted with head bowed in concentration, he asked, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" Benji blinked. Mike tried smothering the smile growing on his face, but it was obvious. The ex-IMF agent read his old friend's actions and assumed it was nothing dangerous, before turning back to the man before him. "Afghanistan," he replied. "Sorry, how did you–?" "Ah, Molly." The man interrupted Benji. "Coffee, thank you." There was a brief talk of lipstick between the unidentified man and Molly, the woman who Mike spoke with earlier. No doubt she was the person in charge of the bodies in the morgue. Molly moved in and took the coffee tray, Mike still smug as he watched the scene unfold, until Benji's thought was interrupted yet again.

"How do you feel about the violin?" As Molly left the room without hesitating and Stanford still kept smiling, Benji assumed the man addressed him. The undercover agent paused. "I'm sorry, what?" The man put down his coffee and fiddled with the lab instruments again, though he connected eyes with Benji in evidence he had spoken to the ginger. "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." Benji never said anything about flatmates. People who spoke like that usually deserved a wary approach and the heightening of one's senses, but from Mike's jovial atmosphere and the black-haired man's somewhat mischievous air, Benji decided he'd give the unnamed scientist maybe five seconds to redeem himself. Maybe.

He turned to Mike. "You told him about me?" "Not a word." Benji would have loved to wipe off annoying smile still present on Mike's face. He instead settled with thinning his lips. "Then who said anything about flatmates?" "I did," the black-haired man answered instead, "'Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just out to lunch with an old friend. Clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap." IMF wasn't exactly military, but it was still impressive to gather as much without any real research on "John." "How did you know about Afghanistan?" Benji shouldn't have bothered to ask. The man spoke as if he hadn't heard his inquiry. "I've got my eye on a nice little place in Central London." The man put on a coat and wrapped a scarf around his neck. "Together we ought to be able to afford it. We meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock." He headed towards the door. "Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

_No—hold on a moment. _

"Hold on a moment," Benji voiced the words in his head. "Hm?" the man paused with the door half open. Benji turned to face him, remembering to aid his leg with his cane. "We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat." The blank look told the ex-IMF agent enough about how much the other cared. Benji ignored the urge to roll his eyes like when he'd try explaining technological processes to Will. "We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where we're meeting, and I don't even know your name." He had a good idea, though. The black-haired man opened his mouth.

"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He disappeared past the door, before popping his head back in. "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221b Baker Street. Good afternoon." And this time he really was gone. Benji looked at Mike. "Yeah," the brunette answered without needing a question, "He's always like that." His smile only made his answer more honest, and Benji inwardly sighed. A grin of his own threatened to grow on his, however, because the ex-spy could only wonder if living with Holmes would be anything reminiscent like his life with the team.

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Disclaimer: I don't own Mission Impossible nor BBC's Sherlock.  
Special thanks to planet claire . org (no spaces) for providing quotes of BBC's Sherlock!


	3. Day Two, Morning

**Day Two, Morning (A Study in Pink)**

xxx 221b Baker Street xxx

The location seemed good already—the chute lied a favourable distance away, vacant taxis often drove by here, and enough people frequented the sidewalks that Benji could hide himself in a crowd if he needed, such as in possible future pursuits from old friends—and the ginger couldn't help gazing around him in appreciation all the while inwardly mapping out places potential snipers or cameras could be aimed at him and planning to fix that later. "Well this is a prime spot," Benji spoke first, "it must be expensive." Sherlock spoke from his side, joining him up the steps. "Mrs. Hudson the landlady is giving me a special deal; she owes me a favor. A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help her out." Benji looked at the man. "So you stopped her husband from being executed?" Sherlock had a chilly, amused smile. "Oh no. I ensured it." Before Benji could get a word in, Sherlock knocked on the door, and Mrs. Hudson almost immediately opened it and welcome the two in. The greying woman had a charming character Benji easily warmed up to, and him and Sherlock were quickly directed to the flat they were to share, papers and belongings strewn about everywhere.

Benji nodded in satisfaction. "This can be nice," he agreed, walking around. "This can definitely be nice." Sherlock was already at the kitchen. "Yes, well, I already moved in–" "–Once this place is tidied up." The two men had spoken at the same time, before they realised what they said. Sherlock cleared his throat before crossing the living room and picking up a few papers, dumping them in a box nearby. "I, uh, can fix this up a bit…." John held back a smile at the obvious sign of embarrassment and sense of courtesy, briefly remembering how tough Will could be but in the end, was still the team's "helper." _"So what's my part; what do I do?" In the jeep to Burj Khalifa, everyone preparing to trick Moreau and Winstrom. Benji laughs. "You? You're the Helper."_ Benji sucked in a breath at the memory resurfacing, and he forced it down before Sherlock turned around from his mess. The ex-IMF agent moved his gaze elsewhere, not quite ready to meet anyone's eyes in the possibility they would see he wasn't quite alright. Benji stopped at the object sitting on the fireplace mantle. "That's a skull." Sherlock followed Benji's gaze easily enough. "Friend of mine," he stated, and Benji looked at the taller man curiously before leaving it at that.

Mrs. Hudson entered the room, chastising Sherlock for the mess before placing a hand on Benji's shoulder to get his attention. "What do you think then, Dr. Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms." He blinked. "Of course we'll be needing two." "Oh don't worry, there's all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones." Benji stood in place, brows raised in wonder at what had just happened as Mrs. Hudson moved to prepare tea. Sherlock didn't seem to care about the small exchange, and Benji wondered, as he took a seat, if the people of London had gotten more crazy while he was away. Mrs. Hudson returned with the tea, setting it down while conversing. "What do you think of the suicides, Sherlock? Three suicides, all exactly the same." The taller man was staring out the window intensely. "Four," he corrected, just in time for a man in a beige coat to enter the flat. Benji immediately noticed the neat attire casual enough to suggest the man's occupation included moving around a lot, as the team had had several missions where they dressed up but needed to be able to run when necessary, but anything beyond that, Benji couldn't conclude. After a brief exchange of words, the beige coat-wearing man left, and Sherlock paced the room slowly before exploding with excitement.

"Brilliant!" he cheered, "Yes! Four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas." "Look at you," Mrs. Hudson sighed, "all happy. It isn't decent." Sherlock ignored the tea and grabbed her shoulders before kissing her on the cheek. "Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" The tall man's voice floated away as he quickly left the room, the door slamming behind him. Gathering the tea, 221b's landlady headed to kitchen, knowing her friend wouldn't be back in some time. "I'll get you a cuppa of your own, Dr. Watson, you rest your leg." "–_Forget my leg!_ I'm sorry, so sorry. It's just…" Benji coughed into a fist at the outburst. Mrs. Hudson walked back to him, patting her side. "I understand, honey, I've got a hip." As she walked away, Benji picked up a newspaper and began reading. "A cup of tea would be nice, thank you," he included the tone of apology in his words. "I know, deary, just remember I'm not your housekeeper." "Some biscuits would be fine too," he spoke from behind the papers. "Not your housekeeper!" sounded from the kitchen behind him.

The ex-agent scanned the front page, recognising the article about the serial suicides, before and leaned on his knees in realisation the photo of the policeman leading the investigation was of the man who had come in minutes ago. Benji's spy instincts raised the hairs on the back of his neck in a quick warning someone was going to open the flat door, before Sherlock's voice floated to his ears. "You're a doctor." The statement was said so calmly, a stark difference to his almost childish character just moments ago, that Benji instantly raised his defences and wondered if his flatmate knew of his previous occupation. "In fact you're an army doctor," Sherlock continued, and Benji met his eyes evenly. "Yes," he confirmed, though "_doctor_ who helped prevent a worldwide _army_ conflict" sounded more like it. He wondered what the other man would do of it. The Holmes walked closer, fixing his gloves. "Any good?" Benji stood up, wanting to have an advantage in case the taller man decided to attack. "Very good," the ginger declared. "You've seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths." _You're going to see one too, if you keep talking like that,_ Benji thought, but he nodded. "A bit of trouble too, I bet," the Holmes was walking closer, before stopping at arm's length from the doctor. Smart decision. Or a coincidence, and if in that case, a lucky coincidence. Hanging around people like Jane makes one learn many different ways to take down individuals who may have the advantage of height, and Benji had spent enough time with the woman to make attacks as painful as possible. "Of course," Benji replied, "enough for a lifetime. Far too much." Sherlock paused. "Want to see more?" "_Please_, yes." The pair left the flat with an air of energy, a small smile painted in Benji's face when he realised the true character of his flatmate. In a way, if he looked at it, hiding in London could be something like a vacation, and Sherlock was his tour guide.

xxx The Science of Deduction xxx

"You obviously have questions," Sherlock began, as Benji had been shooting the dark-haired man several glances. "Yes," Benji nodded. "Who are you? What do you do?" "What do you think?" Sherlock answered with a question, and Benji looked out his window in thought. "I'd say private detective." "But?" The ginger found it less surprising his flatmate picked up that Benji didn't quite believe his claim from his actions the past few hours, and the doctor inwardly grinned at the prospect of adventure in the future. "The police don't go to private detectives." Sherlock looked ahead, giving his answer. "I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world. I invented the job." Benji's brows furrowed, knowledgeable in many occupations but having never heard anything quite like what the other man stated. "What does that mean?" "It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me." The doctor looked to his left, at Sherlock. "The police don't consult amateurs." A smirk lifted the taller man's lips, and a gleam shone in his eyes. Sherlock turned to him.

Benji's brows raised higher and higher, rapid deductions leaving his flatmate's lips faster than he had ever seen, and he mentally gave credit to Ethan for creating plans on the spot when problems erupted just from taking advantage of all information available and known to him. The ginger always knew Ethan and Will had eidetic memory, but Sherlock only made it clearer that thoughts zipped through their heads in fractions of a second, minds whirring and always in action. Benji wondered if people like them ever got a headache. When Sherlock finally stopped, catching his breath and looking at Benji expectantly, the ginger realised he was looking for a reaction. It didn't take much to produce one. "That. Was amazing." Benji could feel his jaw would drop to the floor if he unlocked his jaw, but he had a sense of dignity. Sherlock moved back in a hint of surprise. "You think so?" he clarified. Benji chuckled. "Of course it was. Extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary." Sherlock paused, before settling back in his seat. "That's not what people normally say." Benji raised a brow. "What do people normally say?" A smile lifted Sherlock's lips. "'Piss off.'" The two looked at each other, before bursting in laughter.

At their destination, they easily slipped out the taxi with a warm atmosphere between them, and Benji fell in step next to Sherlock. "Did I get anything wrong?" The taller man asked, and Benji knew his tan line matched the gear he donned in the mission in Afghanistan; any other tan lines disappeared easily, but the mission had been a long one, so it was a given Benji would get one. For Sherlock to notice something as faint as that made Benji laugh at how unbelievable and extraordinary it all was. Major details aside, the only error lied in Harry. "Harry and I don't get along easily," he began. She was better company than Charlie, though. "Clara and Harry split up three months ago, and they're getting a divorce. Harry became a drinker." To which Benji thoroughly disapproved. Sherlock seemed pleased with himself. "Spot on then. I didn't expect to be right about everything." Hold your horses, Mr. Holmes. "_Harry_ is short for Harriet." Sherlock froze in his walk, Benji going past him before slowing down in realisation. "Harriet," the detective echoed. "A sister." When the taller man caught up with Benji, the ginger observed the yellow tape and area crawling with cops. "What am I doing here?" he asked. "Sister. How could I get that wrong?" "No, seriously," Benji tried drawing his flatmate out of his thoughts. "What am I doing here?" Benji got his answer soon enough.

xxx An Answer xxx

"Helping me make a point."

Benji stared across the dead body at his flatmate, brow quirked and conscious of Lestrade just outside the door, mentally wondering the possibility the policeman was researching Benji's background and discovering "John" didn't exist, but dismissed the idea. He turned his attention back at the matter at hand. "I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent." "Yeah, well," Sherlock didn't appear the slightest concerned. "This is more fun." "Fun? There's a woman lying dead." The detective blinked. "Perfectly sound analysis but I was hoping you'd go deeper." He gestured at the corpse, and Benji sighed, distantly wondering how he was roped into doing this. He checked the woman's warmth and wrist, noting aloud she suffered from asphyxiation having choked on her own vomit and that she hadn't been drinking recently. That was about the same time Lestrade entered the room again, arms crossed and saying they only had half a minute left before Forensics came in. "You've read the papers," Sherlock kept talking to Benji, "what did she die from?" The taller man had spoken while obviously ignoring Lestrade, and Benji knew this was so Sherlock would have an easier time proving his point with words from another party: Benji. "She committed suicide with pills," Benji stated, sounding as if he was repeating the obvious.

Then there suddenly was a flurry of action, words of a missing luggage bag, before Sherlock finally disappeared down the spiral of stairs, leaving Benji at the floor with his cane, wondering if Ethan would sound like the consultant detective if the agent ever spoke what he thought. It took what seemed forever to reach the ground floor, muttering insults at the part of his mind causing his psychosomatic limp all the way, before Benji finally left to the street and got past the yellow tape. Sergeant Sally Donovan helped him with pointing out there would be taxis at the main street, along with her tidbit of advice to stay away from Sherlock, but Benji had calmed down suicidal agents, politicians, and bombers, and he knew crazy when he saw it. Sherlock wasn't crazy, he was just…like the eccentric agents back at IMF, agents like Ethan and Jane and Will and Luther. Sorta-kinda-not-quite crazy. And proud of it. Benji paused on his walk to the main street, forcing his emotional tidal wave at bay— _Hey, Benji? I need you to—Ethan, no! I've just looked up, you're on Interpol's most wanted list, okay, a _fantastic_ list to be on. So whatever happened, I'm sorry, but I'm hanging up right now. __**Benji**__…. _A sigh._ Maybe we can share a jail cell together, if this goes south—and it will!_ He hears a chuckle over the line —but some of the happy, wistful memories slip through, and Benji leans heavily on his cane, tired not from his leg but the separation from his teammates.

The phone booth to Benji's right started ringing, and the ex-IMF agent looked at it. Impossible. The Secretary couldn't have found him so quickly, right? Not only that, but if the Secretary could pinpoint and predict where Benji would be at the right time, then he would have killed Benji already. Someone else, then, someone interested in Benji's services, and the doctor decided he would let the unidentified party simmer a bit before he could get an idea how bad the employer needed him. He proceeded to pass three phones, taxis refusing to acknowledge him the entire time, and Benji got an idea of how the interested party was like: covert enough that the British government hasn't noticed their telephone lines and security were breached, powerful enough to make sure it stayed that way, and smart enough to keep an eye on Benji via traffic cams if the ex-agent decided he'd do anything typical of the team, like causing mayhem and disappearing in the midst of it so he couldn't be found again. When Benji glanced at his cellphone, however, his attentiveness heightened. For this to keep on after two minutes meant either his stalker _was_ the British government, or a party to have the leverage or partnership to get the government to work for it.

At a phone booth near an intersection where a healthy crowd frequented the streets, Benji finally entered and picked up the device. "There's a security camera to your left. Do you see it?" sounded over the phone. _Yeah, it's been watching me the entire walk down this street_, but Benji refrained from biting out the comment. "Who is this?" "Do you see it, Dr. Watson?" Ah, no one aware of his background, then. If it was, then the man on the line would have used Benji's true surname to prove the employer's power and set a threatening yet polite first impression. "Yes, I see it," Benji responded, glancing to his left to play along. The doctor was ordered to watch, and the camera moved its eyes away, where Benji was no longer in sight. One down, three to go. "There's another security camera straight in front of you. Do you see it?" Two to go. "And the third on right. Do you see it?" The last one facing Benji was to keep a careful eye on him, just in case. The camera wasn't a traffic cam, however, but the small device pinned on a man's button behind Benji, conversing on his cell, but no one was on the other side when Benji listened after spotting the camera. "How are you doing this?" Was this actually the British government? To be able to orchestrate a discreet, cooperative kidnapping so neatly, Benji could only think so, as the smooth black car pulled up to his right. "Get in the car, Dr. Watson." And the man on the line hung up. Oh, well. If danger presented itself, Benji could always use the Beretta Nano cleverly hidden on his person.

xxx A Mysterious Gentleman xxx

Glancing around the warehouse, observing possible places where cameras and remote-controlled dart guns could be positioned, Benji knew the interested party wanted to be hospitable. There weren't any signs of having tampered with the area, something those who chose the location would normally take advantage of, and whether or not the employer was aware Benji would notice, the doctor appreciated the act. He settled his eyes on a smartly-dressed male leaning on an umbrella with hair slicked back and shoes shiny from a recent polish. This man was deeply associated with government. Anyone working for the good of the Crown would have to dress stylishly, fitting to walk around Buckingham Palace without appearing not formal enough, and Benji relaxed a bit in assurance he wasn't summoned because of his IMF backgrounds.

"You know, I've got a phone," Benji started out, acting out the army doctor he was expected to be. "I mean, very clever and all that. But, ah, you could just phone me. On my phone." A small smile formed on the gentleman's face, and he leaned off his umbrella. "When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes one learns to be discreet, hence this place." Sherlock? This man wasn't interested in "John" at all; he wanted something of the consultant detective. The man gestured at the chair. "Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down." "I don't want to sit down," Benji declared. The smile turned forcibly polite.

"You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening."

Mysterious government official stared down technologically intelligent doctor-cum-field agent, and the former spoke first. "Ah, the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity don't you think?" He knew Benji as only John, what with the soldier comment, but it made the man no less threatening and thus to be wary of. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" he asked. Benji kept his face perfectly emotionless. Sherlock didn't seem to have the number of friends needed to support him what with the dislike he gets from police officers and the vague interest of powerful government officials, though the last seemed out of place. Perhaps this unidentified man was a traitor to his country and simply used his resources for his own purposes?

"I don't have one," Benji replied honestly, "I barely know him. I met him…yesterday." "And since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Are we to expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?" Sherlock had been watched? "Who are you?" Benji asked, losing his patience. "An interested party." No, duh. "Interested in Sherlock. Why?" The gentleman sighed, dodging the question. "I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having." He never mentioned what. Benji decided he'd ask. "And what's that?" "An enemy." Sherlock's eccentricities popped up even without the detective actually being there, and Benji leaned on his cane in compensation for the small chuckle he wished to do. "An enemy?" Benji clarified with a raised a brow. Another sigh escaped the nameless man. "In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him he'd probably say his _archenemy_. He does love to be dramatic." Benji made a pointed glance around the room. "Well thank goodness you're above all that." Suddenly, Benji's cellphone chimed.

**Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH**

Benji put it away, not allowing the gentleman before him to read any expression in response to the text. "I hope I'm not distracting you." _Yes, well, if you're just going to waste a bloody good chunk of my time speaking in circles, I'll just leave, then._ "You're not distracting me at all," Benji bit out. The man paused, playing with his umbrella. "Do you plan on continuing your association with Sherlock Holmes?" Benji resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the looping conversation, and he sent a hard stare. "I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business."

"It could be."

"It really couldn't."

The smile dropped, but the gentleman obviously had something up his sleeve, because the smug air still stayed. He pulled out a book from his jacket, though Benji internally panicked for a moment in the probability the man was armed and the doctor hadn't noticed it, and the gentleman glanced at the pages. "If you do move into 221b Baker Street, I would be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way." "Why?" Benji decided to go direct. The man played with his umbrella, "Because you're not a wealthy man. All I want is information, nothing discreet, nothing you'd feel uncomfortable with." He flashed a friendly smile. "Just tell me what he's up to." Benji kept a steady stare, speaking more firmly. "_Why?_" he asked again. Knowing the ex-agent wouldn't settle for anything less than the answer he looked for, the smile vanished as the man finally responded, his umbrella forced still. "I worry about him. Constantly." Worry or _stalk?_ Benji decided to keep the sarcastic comment to himself.

"That's very nice of you," he settled with, and the man relaxed a notch, notably twirling his umbrella again. "But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern would go unmentioned." He brought the prop up and stared at the tip, before settling it back down. "We have what you might call a difficult relationship." Another text chimed on Benji's phone, and the ginger glanced at it.

**If inconvenient come anyway. SH**

What could the ridiculous sod want now? "No," the ex-agent stated, resolute. The gentleman raised a brow. "I haven't even mentioned a figure." Benji scoffed. "Don't bother." As if the man would offer anything greater than what Benji recieved when he was in IMF. If anything, the doctor wouldn't find whatever amount of money planned to be given surprising. "You're very loyal, _very_ quickly," the mysterious gentleman chuckles with an edge to his voice. Benji met his eyes evenly. "No, I'm not," he stated. "I'm just not. Interested." The hardness in his tone is definite. The nameless man hesitated, before flipping open his book again. "'Trust issues,' it says here." Benji's heart nearly stopped. He'd been monitored? "What's that?" he asked, but in the same way Sherlock ignored Benji's questions the first time they met, the man went on. "Could it be you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?" Benji shifted his jaw back and forth in irritation at the other's advantage of greater information. "Who says I trust him?" The mysterious man shrugged. Nonchalantly. Like Cobalt would. "You don't seem the kind to make friends easily," the man stated. At the memory of Cobalt, Benji instinctively clenches his fists, his jaw set.

"Are we done?" A cool stare. The Beretta feels warm in his pocket.

"You tell me." Unreadable eyes gaze back.

For a moment, Benji seriously debates attacking the government official, but he holds back. Back in IMF, _he_ was the one who calmed people down or cheered his everyone up, not be the one who got angry for the team and defended and protected accordingly. Now, experiencing the role for the first time, it felt exhausting. Counting backwards from ten, Benji turned around and started walking away, but _of course_ the nameless gentleman _had_ to raise the tension.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

Did he know of the Beretta? Had the man really noticed Benji was itching for his gun with the hand closest, the left? Benji stopped walking, before facing the man. "My what?" he clarifies. The mysterious gentleman held out a hand, he umbrella in the other. The man's eyes gleamed with curiosity. "Show me." Benji hesitates, but in the end he walks over and gives his left hand. If the guy wanted the Beretta, then Benji would _gladly_ show him. The government official only observed Benji's hand, however, turning it over slowly. "Remarkable." The doctor furrowed his brows. "What is?" he asked. And there it was, another similarity with Sherlock; brown eyes alight with the essential _desire_ to share an observation and corresponding conclusion, the spark of excitement.

"Most people blunder around this city," the gentleman began, "and all they see are streets, shops, and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield." Running around with Sherlock was almost as adrenaline-pumping as Benji's past missions, but the missions always felt grave in awareness of Benji's and his team's situations, especially on the missions where immanent death hung over their heads. Benji knew what it was like to be in a battlefield. Being with Sherlock was more care-free. "You've seen it already, haven't you?" Benji was drawn out of his thoughts. He blinked. "What's wrong with my hand?"

The mysterious man gave an unreadable smile. "You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand." Benji nodded in confirmation. "Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service–" "Stop," the ginger suddenly interrupted. Hearing himself to be haunted by bad memories only made them threaten to resurface— "Fire her. She's got it the wrong way around." Wait, what? "You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady," the man pointed out. "You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it." He leaned in, speaking just below a whisper. The ex-agent's hand was still grasped in the man's warm ones. "Welcome back."

Benji pulled his hand back and took a step away, a little creeped out and honestly scared how the man knew and found out so much. His purpose fulfilled, the man took proper hold of his umbrella, and he walked away, to the side where another exit no doubt stood. As Benji kept an eye on the slowly disappearing figure, the gentleman swung his umbrella. "Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson." And he was gone. Benji blinked, before rubbing his face with his hands, aware of his hand not trembling. The man was right. After regaining a sense of stability, Benji turned to the car that waited for him, and he slipped in. The woman whom Benji flirted a bit with earlier was sitting inside, playing with her Blackberry. "Let's take you home," she said, and looked up, waiting for an address. Benji gave her the location of his doss, wanting to get his original gun, the one he had as an agent and not the emergency Nano in his coat pocket, and the tinted car proceeded out the warehouse and unto the public streets. When he came back to the car—no doubt waiting to bring him to his true house's location as the mysterious gentleman earlier most likely informed them of 221b Baker Street—the ginger recieved another text.

**Could be dangerous. SH**

If Sherlock was hanging on the side of a building, casually texting Benji this, the ex-agent would have to berate him the same way he would to Will when he'd discover the analyst hadn't mentioned he was in a bit of a pickle when calling for help. One time, Benji found Will holding on to a rope that dangled over the rich target's private pool of sharks, waiting for help. Benji nearly lost a few hairs when he saw that. The doctor turned to the woman in the car, Anthea. "Listen, your boss—any chance you could not tell him this is where I went?" She nodded without taking her eyes off her Blackberry. The doctor sighed. "You've told him already, haven't you?" She looked at him. "Yeah." _Fantastic_. The mysterious government dude probably already knew his doss address anyway. There was no point in trying, Benji supposed. The car pulled up to 221b, and he got out.

xxx Dangerous? xxx

His eye was twitching, his grip tight on his cane. "Mrs. Hudson's got a phone," he stated tersely. Sherlock, lying on the couch and not facing him, smoothened the nicotene patches on his arm. "Yeah, but she's downstairs. I tried shouting, but she didn't hear." "I was on the _other side of London_." "It wasn't that hard to wait." The impatient detective summoned him urgently because he didn't want to stand up to get a phone? Benji exhaled slowly out his nose before taking out Harry's cellphone and placing it on Sherlock's outstretched palm. The Londoner simply held it, closing his eyes and breathing deeply in thought and in use of _three_ nicotene patches. "On my desk, there's this number. I want you to send a text." Not only that, he needed Benji's phone just to not use it? "You brought me here…to send a text," Benji clarified. "Text, yes. The number on my desk," Sherlock reminded, and Benji rolled his eyes as he took the phone from Sherlock's hands and moved away to the desk. The doctor glanced out the window, just in case the mysterious gentleman set up any obvious surveillance around, and the momentary pause caught Sherlock's attention.

"What's wrong?" he asked. Benji decided he'd go the simplest way around. "I just met a friend of yours." "A friend?" the detective's question was faster, as if in surprise and a touch of worry. Benji glanced back at his flatmate. "An enemy," he clarified, before picking up the number. "Oh! Which one?" Sherlock relaxed, and Benji decided he didn't want to think too much of the reaction. "Your _arch_enemy, according to him." _An umbrella, twirled around. Bright eyes, reflecting intelligence like Sherlock's._ "Who is he?" Sherlock's eyes were closed again, his fingers playing with the edges of the nicotene patches. "The most dangerous man you've ever met and _not_ my problem right now." He sounded irritated. "On my desk,_ the number_," he reminded again, and Benji sighed. "Jennifer Wilson," he read the label, "the dead woman, correct?" "Not important, just enter the number," Sherlock interjected, and Benji wondered why he was using something as personal as his—temporary—phone for his flatmate's texts. The Holmes waited. "Are you doing it?" "Yes." "Have you done it?" "Yes–Hang on!" Benji forced him to wait patiently. Sherlock wasn't affected.

"These words exactly. 'What happened at Laurinston Guardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberlands Street. Please come.'" Benji automatically began texting the words he heard, when a memory overlapped his thoughts. _Crumpled paper. Magazine-clipped letters: The data you need is at these coordinates. Will you be able to stop me?–Running. Lots of running, bullets straying after them–Jane is crying. The USB in Benji's hand is gently taken as Will tries to stop the bleeding. Jumbled words, but a comforting voice. Ethan._ "Have you sent it?" Sherlock's voice disrupted the flashback, and Benji shook his head out of his thoughts. "Sorry, what's the address?" The doctor's voice was clear, but his hands were shaking. Fortunately, Sherlock wasn't looking. 22 Northumberlands Street," he repeated, "hurry up!" The detective heaved something onto the coffee table, and when Benji sent the text and turned around, he recognized the object as a pink case suitably belonging to Jennifer Wilson.

"How did you get this?" the ginger asked as he took a seat. Sherlock was staring at the case intently in thought, just as Benji found him staring at the ceiling when the ex-agent entered the flat. "By looking." "Where?" Sherlock glanced at his flatmate, and Benji sensed the speech coming.

"The killer must have driven it to Laurinston Guardens. He could only keep her case by accident if he was in a car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention to themselves, particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So obviously he felt compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes for him to realise his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Laurinston Guardens and any way you could dispose of a bulky object without being disturbed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

Benji felt his lips twitch despite himself. "Pink. You got all that because you realized the case would be pink." Sherlock nodded, like it was nothing. "It had to be pink, obviously–although her phone's missing." The Holmes's sentences jumped from one subject to another, attesting to his rapid thoughts, and Benji blinked. "Phone?" "Phone," Sherlock nodded. "There was no mobile phone on the body, no phone in the case. We know the killer has one, which is why we sent the text." "Maybe she left it at home," Benji reasoned. His flatmate shook his head. "She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home. The question is, though, where is her phone now?" "She could have lost it." "Or?" The detective's bright green gaze met Benji's. "You think the murderer has her phone," the doctor stated.

Sherlock shrugged. "Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, there's a greater probability the murderer has her phone." His eyes returned to the case, and Benji felt himself freeze in realisation. "Sorry, what are we doing? Did I just text a _murderer_?" Not the first time, though Ethan had been the one to propose it, and Benji wasn't using his—temporary—personal cellphone. Before Benji could share exactly what he thought of what Sherlock made him do, his cellphone began ringing. The two flatmates looked at the mobile in unison, and Benji held it up for them to see.

**(withheld) caller**

Sherlock rested his chin on his hands, as if having predicted it. "He's done with his last victim," he muttered, "and now he recieves a text that can only be from her. Somebody who just found that phone would ignore a text like that, but the murderer…would panic." He slammed the case shut and got up, almost startling Benji into punching something, but he held it back enough. Sherlock took his coat and put it on, as well as his scarf and gloves, and Benji watched him from his chair. "Have you talked to the police?" Sherlock couldn't possibly be chasing a serial killer without at least the possibility of protection, right? "Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk to the police." Or perhaps civilians weren't as mellow as Benji believed. "So why are you talking to _me_?" Benji asked, deeply confused. Sherlock turned to him with a closed smile. "Mrs. Hudson took my skull." Because that explained everything. "I'm filling in for your skull?" "Relax, you're doing fine." Sherlock took a breath, ready to leave. "Well?" he asked Benji. The ex-agent was startled. "Well what?" "Well you could just sit there and watch telly," Sherlock said. Benji raised a brow. "What, you want me to come with you?" The detective shrugged lightly, as if it was unimportant. "I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention."

Benji snorted.

His flatmate tilted his head. "Problem?" Benji looked at him with raised brows. "Yes," he stated, before relaxing, looking off in remembering. "Sergeant Donovan." "What about her?" Sherlock's voice was hinted with contempt. "She said you get off on this. You enjoy it." Benji turned back to look at his flatmate, and Sherlock's knowing smile appeared. "And I said dangerous. Yet here you are." The tall man swiftly left the room, and Benji's eyes trailed after him. The ginger looked straight ahead of him in thought, and he sighed. "Dang it." He got up after his flatmate.

–––

Disclaimer: I don't own Mission Impossible nor BBC's Sherlock.  
Special thanks to planet claire . org (no spaces) for providing quotes of BBC's Sherlock!


	4. Day Two, Night

**Day Two, Night (A Study in Pink)**

xxx Angelo's xxx

"Where are we going?" That seemed to be Benji's favourite phrase of the day, if the past few hours with Sherlock was anything to go by. Said detective was walking quickly down the sidewalk, as if his legs were trying to catch up with his brain. "Northumberland Street's a five minute walk from here," the taller man replied, and Benji looked at him. "You think he's stupid enough to go there?" Sherlock met his eyes. "No. I think he's brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones—they're always so desperate to get caught." Benji raised a brow. "Why?" Sherlock waved his hands in front of him, as if gesturing the answer. "Appreciation. Applause. At long last, the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, John. It needs an audience." "…Yeah." While Benji was looking straight ahead of him, Sherlock glanced at the ginger, before looking in front of him again.

Moving back to his thoughts, Sherlock gazed around him. "He must be somewhere around," he said, "Right here, in the heart of the city. Now we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. All his victims disappear from busy streets and crowded places, but nobody saw them go. Who do we trust even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?" Benji shrugged. "I don't know, who?" "I haven't the faintest." Sherlock suddenly veered off the sidewalk. "Hungry?" he called over his shoulder, and Benji scrambled after the sudden turn.

They entered an Italian restaurant, and Sherlock brought them to a table near the window without even waiting for the server. The man at the counter didn't seem to mind; in fact, there was the hint of recognition, and Benji decided he'd wait for an explanation, as Sherlock had already instructed Benji to keep an eye on 22 Northumberland Street through the window. The man at the counter called over a big man from the kitchen, and the latter spotted Sherlock and smiled, before coming over and shaking the detective's hand. "Sherlock," the obvious Italian greeted, "anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. It's on the house for you and your date." Sherlock smiled back, and he and Benji spoke at the same time, Sherlock to Benji and Benji to the Italian.

"Are you hungry?"

"I'm not his date."

The Italian seemed to not have heard Benji's statement, as he shook the ginger's hand and grinned. "This man got me off a murder charge," the big man began, and Sherlock spoke while staring out the window. "This is Angelo. 3 years ago I successfully proved in a triple-murder that Angelo was on the completely other side of town, house-breaking." Angelo chuckled. "He cleared my name!" "I cleared it a bit," Sherlock stated. "Anything happening opposite?" The Italian shook his head. "Nothing. But because of this man, I had to go to prison." The last of his words were directed at Benji, who politely nodded in slight confusion. Sherlock chuckled. "You did go to prison," he agreed. Angelo, finished with the introductions, patted a spot on the table. "I'll get a candle for the table. Small and romantic." As the big man left, Benji called after him in slight irritation. "_I'm not his date!_" He might as well have been talking to a wall.

Sherlock glanced at Benji. "You may as well eat. We have a long time to wait." The candle was placed on the table. Benji watched Angelo leave after saying he'd get the house special for Benji, and the ex-agent sighed in resignation. "…Thanks," he muttered, and he sighed again. Curiosity sparked in the doctor, however, and he spoke to his flatmate. "People don't have archenemies." Shelock glanced at him. "Sorry?" The food came in, and Benji began eating. "In real life," he explained. "There are no archenemies in real life. It doesn't happen." Only enemies, and goodness knows Benji had plenty of those. Sherlock frowned. "Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull." Benji blinked in confusion. "So who did I meet earlier, your so-called 'archenemy?'"

Sherlock dodged the question. "What do people have, then, in their 'real lives?'" Benji shrugged as he ate his pasta. "Friends," he gave an example. "People they know, people they like, people they don't like, girlfriends, boyfriends." It felt so contradictory, though, to talk about having those things when all Benji could afford were teammates and targets. "As I was saying," Sherlock went on. "Dull." "You don't have a girlfriend, then." If so, she must possess the same quirks, because goodness knows a woman like Jane would break Sherlock's finger if he refused to explain himself and claim everything was _so obvious_. Jane was never one for patience.

"Girlfriend? No. Not really my area," Sherlock said, still observing Northumberland Street. "Alright," Benji went on eating, before he froze in realisation. Area? Did that mean…? "Do you have a boyfriend?" the doctor was almost afraid to ask. This time Sherlock looked at him. "–Which is fine, by the way," "–I know it's fine," the detective responded a little too quickly. Benji coughed, embarrassed. "So you've got a boyfriend." "No." "Okay, okay." Awkward. "You're unattached, fine by me. Fine. Good." Goodness, Benji, shut up already. Only Will stumbled in conversations.

Sherlock stared back out the window a moment, throwing glances at Benji, before finally turned to his flatmate. "John–" Benji fought back the urge to wince at the fake name, "–I think, um, you should know I consider myself a man married to his work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really–" Benji choked on his spaghetti. "No!" He coughed. "No, I'm not asking–No! I'm just saying…it's _all_ fine." Sherlock nodded a little. "…Good." He turned back to the window. Benji mentally facepalmed at probably the worst conversation he ever had. Sherlock suddenly leaned towards the window, eyes fixated on a taxi. "Look across the street," the detective said, right on time. "A taxi. Stopped. Nobody getting, nobody getting out. Why him?" Benji turned around to see what his flatmate was talking about. "That's the killer?" "Don't stare," Sherlock said. "Why not?" Benji retorted, "_You're_ staring." "We can't both stare." And with that, Sherlock shot out of the booth. Benji rushed after him, grabbing his coat on the way out.

xxx Run Boy Run xxx

The taxi had already started zooming away, and Benji memorised the cab's license plate. "I got the traffic number," he informed Sherlock. The consulting detective didn't even blink at the news. "Good for you." The taller man suddenly squeezed his eyes shut, furiously mumbling street names and rules like "no right turn" under his breath, before he suddenly dashed into an alley. "This way!" And he went off. Benji ran after him. The pair went through what could only be classified as parkour, though it was less rough and fast-paced as compared to when running with Ethan; that didn't make it any less crazy, and Benji found himself grinning as he leapt across rooftops and scaled down ladders after his flatmate.

They finally caught the cab–though it appeared the other way around when the cab grazed Sherlock, who had ran into its path to stop the vehicle–only to be disappointed. "No," Sherlock shook his head, catching his breath. "The teeth, tan. What, Californian? LA. Santa Monica. Just arrived." The passenger in the cab looked startled. "How do you know that?" "The luggage," the consulting detective gestured at the traveling bags as if it was obvious. "Probably your first trip to London, right? Going by your final destination, the route the cabbie was taking you." The Californian adopted a guarded expression. "Sorry, are you guys the police?" Benji looked at his flatmate, wondering what he would do. "Yeah," the Holmes responded, flashing a badge. "Everything all right?" The passenger nodded slowly. "Yes." Sherlock was still panting. "Yes, uh, welcome to London." Benji stepped in as the taller man left the cab to the sidewalk, and he gave a friendly smile. "Ah, any problems just let us know." He closed the cab door and joined his flatmate at the side.

The ex-agent pointed at the badge. "Detective Inspector Lestrade," he read aloud, raising a brow in question. Sherlock acknowledged he was caught. "I pickpocket him when's he annoying. You can keep that one, if you want, I have plenty back at the flat." The doctor didn't know why, but he started laughing, and he finally relaxed, sighing. Sherlock gave him a confused look. "What?" Benji met his eyes. "Nothing, just…'welcome to London.'" The pair shared a grin, before Sherlock nodded at the crossguard the tourist was apparently pointing towards them. "Got your breath back?" the detective asked. Benji chuckled. "Ready when you are." They sprinted away, Sherlock directing them to the flat.

Not much time seemed to have passed before they found themselves leaning against the wall before the stairs that lead to their flat, panting and grinning like fools. "That was ridiculous," Benji commented. He was supposed to be hiding, laying low, not catching the attention of crossguards and tourists. "That was easily one of the most ridiculous things I've ever done." Yet he was smiling anyway. Sherlock lolled his head to the side, smiling at Benji. "You invaded Afghanistan." They laughed together at the, while incomplete, truth. "Yes, well, that wasn't just me." Technically, it was the team, along with the soldiers in the army they were secretly protecting as part of their mission. The ginger made a realisation. "Why aren't we back at the restaurant?" "They can keep an eye out," Sherlock claimed between pants, "It was a long shot ayway." Benji looked at him. "So what were we doing there?" "Oh, just passing the time." Here, Sherlock turned his piercing green eyes into Benji's. "And proving a point." "What point?" Benji asked. Sherlock gave a small smirk. "You." A round of knocks suddenly cut through the air, and the pair turned to the front door in unison. Benji looked at his flatmate, but Sherlock simply stood there, not moving to get the door. Sighing, the ex-agent opened it to reveal Angelo carrying his cane.

"Sherlock texted me," the Italian explained, holding up the cane. "He said you forgot this." "Uh," Benji glanced back, where Sherlock was grinning. "Yes, thank you." His cheeks flushed from running and embarrassment. After all, what was a "cripple" doing without his cane? "Thank you," he repeated again, before he went back inside, carrying the prop. Mrs. Hudson suddenly ran up to the Holmes. "Sherlock, what have you done?" "Mrs. Hudson?" the taller man asked in worry and confusion. "Upstairs," she gestured, and Benji and Sherlock shared a glance before sprinting up the stairs.

xxx The Sociopath xxx

"I don't even smoke." Sherlock unbuttoned his cuff, showing the nicotene patches. "Neither do I." Lestrade revealed his own.

What seemed like a dozen officers from Scotland Yard had invaded the flat, going through a pretend drugs bust as Lestrade had gotten tired of the consulting detective keeping evidence and exploring the case on his own. "So at least we are together," the DI sighed, before fixing his sleeve. "We found Rachel," he informed, and Sherlock raised his head in interest. "Who is she?" "Jennifer Wilson's daughter." "Daughter?" Sherlock frowned. "Why would she write the name of her own daughter?" "So what?" Anderson's nasal voice carried from the kitchen. "We have the case. According to _someone_, the murderer would have the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath." Benji stood back, watching the events unfold in slight amusement. Sherlock turned to Anderson impatiently.

"I'm not a psychopath, I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research." To Lestrade, he said, "You need to find Rachel; you need to question her, I need to question her," "–She's dead." The taller man was unperturbed by the news. "Yes, and tell me why. There is a connection, there has to be." Lestrade crossed his arms. "Well, I doubt it since she's been dead for 14 years. Technically, she's never been alive. _Rachel_ was Jennifer Wilson's still unborn daughter 14 years ago." This set the consulting detective off-balance. "No that's…that's not right. How…. Why would she do that? Why?" "Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yup, sociopath, seeing it now," Anderson commented, and Benji caught the twitch of an eye on Sherlock's face. The doctor smothered a laugh.

"She thought about her daughter for a reason. She _scratched_ her name on the floor with her _fingernails_. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt." Benji decided he'd put in his two cents. "You said the victims all took the poison themselves," the ex-agent shrugged, "that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he, I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow." "It was ages ago, why would she still be upset?" Lestrade and Benji looked at each other at the insensitive statement. Sherlock realised the impact of his words. "Not good?" he asked Benji. Said doctor's lips thinned. "A bit not good, yeah." Lestrade watched the consulting detective turn to his flatmate. "If you were dying," Sherlock began, "if you were being murdered, in the last few seconds, what would you say?" _Ethan, nearly unconscious, reaching for him from across the floor. "Benji!" White-hot, searing pain. A gutteral scream Benji realises is coming from him. His whisper of a few words, before unconsciousness takes him…._ "Please, God, let me live." Sherlock sighed in irritation. "Use your imagination," he urged. Benji's eyes met his evenly. "I don't have to." Something seemed to leave Sherlock's shoulders, and the two stared at each other. Benji recognised the faint realisation alight in his flatmate's eyes, and he offered nothing to say to ease the tense air. If they were going to be living together for a while, the taller man would have to understand that Benji had gone through some things the detective couldn't relate to.

Sherlock straightened, and Benji knew the man accepted him, a little battle-scarred or not. "Yeah," the detective began, "but if you were clever, _really_ clever…Jennifer Wilson?" Sherlock's thoughts were faster than his ability to speak, as usual. Benji could imagine his lit professors back from uni fainting from hearing his flatmate talk in broken sentences. "Running all those lovers? She was clever. She's trying to tell us something," Sherlock decided. Mrs. Hudson entered the room. "Isn't the doorbell working? Your taxi's here," she addressed Sherlock. "I didn't order a taxi. Go away." Benji gave a disapproving look, but the taller man did nothing of it. "Oh, dear," Mrs. Hudson watched the pretend drugs bust, "they're making such a mess. What are they looking for?" On the side, Benji replied as Sherlock paced in thought. "It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson." The landlady put a hand on her hip. "But I've got my hip, and I need the herbal soothening for it–" Sherlock burst at the noise.

"Shut up, _everybody_! Don't move, don't breath, don't speak! Anderson, face the other way, you're putting me off." "What? My _face_ is?" "Everybody, quiet and still," Lestrade stepped in. "Anderson, turn your back." "Oh, for Pete's sake," "–Turn back now, please!" The brunette quickly did so in response to his superior's raised voice. "Sherlock, your taxi!" the landlady reminded, and Sherlock turned to her in impatience. "Mrs. Hudson!" She quickly left, when the Holmes suddenly relaxed. "Oh," his eyes lit up in realisation. "Ah, she was clever, clever. She's dead, but you're not. Do you see it? Do you get it? Lose her phone? She never lost it, she planted it on him. As she got out of the car, she knew she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer." Lestrade caught up with Sherlock's string of words. "But how?" he asked. The consulting detective turned to him in genuine confusion. "Wh-What do you mean _how_?" Lestrade shrugged, crossing his arms over another. Sherlock recognised no one understood. "Rachel!" he paused, waiting for the looks of having gotten it. "Don't you see? Rachel!" Still no one reacted in enlightenment. "Look at you lot, you're all so vacant. Isn't it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name."

Benji rolled his eyes at the man's comment. "Then what is it?" he asked, and Sherlock told him to read the email address on the pink case aloud, explaining as Benji did so. "She doesn't have a computer so she did business on her phone, so it's a smart phone which is email enabled, so there's a website for her account. The username is her email," "–jenny .pink .mephone .org .uk–" "and her password is…." Sherlock sat down and quickly typed up the website as well as the username and password on his laptop. "Rachel," he finished, and the account unlocked. "So we can read her email, so what?" "Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the IQ of everyone on the street. We can do much more than just read her emails, it's her smartphone, it's got GPS. It means if you lose it, you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her."

"Unless he got rid of it," Lestrade commented. "We know we didn't." Benji explained, just as Mrs. Hudson came in again. "Sherlock, dear, this taxi driver–" Sherlock got up from the chair and turned to her with a stiff smile. "Mrs. Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soothing herbs?" Benji sat down, waiting for the GPS tracking to load–which was ridiculously slow compared to his toys back in IMF, but those days are over–and the doctor listened to Sherlock and Lestrade mutter in the background, Sherlock's voice characteristically faster in attempt to catch up with his mind. "Sherlock?" Benji called out. They were still muttering. "Sherlock?" he tried again, and his flatmate joined him at the screen. "Where?" the Holmes asked, and Benji pointed at the map. "It's here. It's in 221 Baker Street." "What? How?" Lestrade sighed and added his thoughts. "Maybe it was in the case when you brought it back, and it fell somehwere." "What, without me noticing?" Sherlock retorted, before gazing intently back at the screen, as if willing it to show a more reasonable location. "Anyway, we texted him, and he called back," the detective stated, and Lestrade turned to his team. "Guys, we're also looking for a mobile somewhere here." Benji noticed his flatmate's eyes glaze over in thought, before the chime of a text interrupted him.

Quickly reading it, the detective turned around, just in time to spot something at the back of the room. He suddenly started moving slowly after it, getting his coat and putting it on robotically. Benji turned in his seat, his intuition sending warning bells off in his head. "Sherlock, are you okay?" "What? Yeah, yeah, I'm…fine." That didn't seem right. "So how can the phone be here?" "I don't know." Benji pursed his lips, wondering if his flatmate would care to share anything. "I'll try it again," he offered, waiting for an enlightening response. Instead, he recieved a, "Good idea." Growing impatient, Benji decided he'd go direct. "Where are you going?" Sherlock waved him away. "Fresh air, just popping out. Sorry, for a moment, won't be long." –_"Ethan, where are you going?" "I have friends in this area." Jane and Benji share a look, while Will is resolutely avoiding everyone's gaze, having been caught showing skills unusual for an analyst. "What's the plan?" Jane tries. "The plan was to take down Cobalt together, but as that plan has failed I'm going out __**alone**__!" The door slammed shut. _

"Hey, are you alright?" Benji jumped at the sudden hand on his left shoulder, and he automatically pulled the individual on the floor and moved for his gun, when Sally and Anderson grabbed him away, shocked and a little frightened at what he had done. The good news was that they didn't know Benji had a gun, as they stopped him in time. Bad news was Benji had just attacked a Detective Inspector. Lestrade got up from the floor, nursing the back of his head, which had slammed onto the floor when Benji went beserk. "What was _that_?" Sally panicked, and Benji got a hold of himself, shrugging out of the police's grips and fixing his jacket. "Sorry. Instincts." The police officers in the flat looked at him, confused and demanding answers. "My shoulder was badly injured recently," Benji offered an explanation. Lestrade blinked, rubbing the back of his head from the sudden attack earlier. "Terribly sorry," Benji apologised, and he checked the DI. "You don't have a concussion, if that helps any." Lestrade nodded, accepting the apology, and he ordered everyone back to searching for a phone in an effort not to make a big deal of what had just happened. Benji sat back down, staring at the screen but not quite seeing it. He didn't need a therapist, he needed something to occupy his day, something to distract him from his bad memories. Goodness knows he had too many.

Donovan suddenly spotted something out the window, and she released a short breath in impatience. "We're wasting our time!" Donovan threw her hands up in the air. "Why, what happened?" Anderson asked, and Benji looked out the window. "Sherlock got in a cab," he explained, before sighing when he tried his phone several times. "He's ringing out, for some reason." Had the Holmes fallen into a situation where he couldn't contact help? Benji's intuition churned under the surface, as if about to spike in warning of danger, but not quite doing so yet. "What do you mean he's not picking up? Is his phone here, then?" Lestrade asked, and Donovan walked up to her superior, frustrated. "Does it matter; does any of it? You know he's just a lunatic and he'll always let you down. You're wasting your time. All our time." Lestrade stared at her, before rubbing his face with his hands, tired. "Okay everybody, we're done here." The members of the Yard started packing up and leaving quickly, and Lestrade sighed again. "Why did he have to do that," he wondered aloud, "why did he have to leave?" Benji looked up, startled at having been brought out of his thoughts. He shrugged. "You know him better than I do." Lestrade looked at him, putting his coat on. "I've known him for 5 years, and I don't." Benji watched him head for the exit. "So why do you put up with him?" he ventured to ask. Lestrade glanced back at him. "Because I'm desperate, that's why. Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think one day—if we're very very lucky—he might even be a good one."

Benji stared after him, pondering over the statement. The police finally left, and he exhaled slowly, crossing his arms and wondering how the day seemed to fly by so quickly, before glancing at Sherlock's laptop. The GPS tracker had been refreshed, so it was still locating the pink lady's phone, and the doctor listened to the hum of the loading bar for a while before giving up and reaching for his own laptop. He could locate Sherlock's cellphone in a few seconds—at least half a minute, if he wanted to avoid governmental attention—but the chime of the tracker having finished loading floated to Benji's ears. He moved towards Sherlock's computer and looked at the screen, and his eyes widened in realisation. Benji grabbed Sherlock's laptop and dashed out the flat, simultaneously calling Lestrade and his men with his cellphone to head to the location on the screen.

When Benji's taxi arrived at the place highlighted on the GPS, the ex-agent slipped out and hastily paid the taxi, before glancing between the two identical buildings. He chose the one on the right in random, hoping he'd find Sherlock in time to keep him from immanent danger. As he zipped past rows of doors, checking through the door windows if his flatmate was there, a new kind of adrenaline pumped through his veins. This wasn't the energy that ran through him when he did parkour through London with Sherlock, or when he'd train with the team in hand-to-hand combat for fun. No, this was the kind he felt like when Ethan and an assassin were struggling with each other on a roof and Benji had only one shot to take down one of the small figures in his vision; when Will had been pinned under fallen bookshelves and the bomb in the building was going to set off soon; when he realised Jane was going to get shot and pushed her out of the way, where a bullet ripped through his shoulder….

_Slam_. Benji was panting, leaning heavily against the wall with his hand. He had to stop experiencing flashbacks; he was just a retired army doctor, his name was John Watson, and he did not suffer from war memories too often to have been only a soldier. Right? Right. If anything, the only thing an army doctor should suffer from was memories about his patients, never ones of his comrades and himself, because what army doctor actually fights in battles enough to get nightmares from it? _They're seated at a table, smiling at each other. "How's your leg?" Jane asks Ethan. "Working," he responds. "You?" "Healing." She smiles. Benji raises a hand. "I'm fine, by the way. Just not sleeping. You know, cold sweats. In the middle of the night." There's a moment where everyone looks at each other before laughing at his humour._ Who was he kidding? Benji didn't even know what it was like to be an army doctor. What he did know was that nightmares plagued him enough, that he had been in battle enough, to have chosen the occupation as part of his cover. Benji forced himself to stay on the move, pushing his emotions to the side. Sherlock could be in trouble, if Benji's intuition and the GPS was anything to go by, and he couldn't allow a life to be lost because he was missing his team.

"Sherlock?" he tried shouting, but his voice came out hoarse. He cleared his throat, trying again. "Sherlock!" No answer. Everything was quiet like a tombstone, and this only made each footstep and breath seem to echo down the halls, alerting potential enemies of the prey approaching. Benji took out his gun, his hands moving to hold it like it was a part of him in muscle memory. He wasn't going to be the prey. Not today. The ginger finally quieted to not speaking at all and instinctively making lighter steps and slipping into rooms like the ex-field agent he was. He finally entered a room that looked like dead end in the maze of connected rooms and twisting hallways, when the man gazed out the window to the lit room in the building opposite. Sherlock and who could only be the killer were facing each other. The killing cabbi was talking, gazing intently at the detective, his words heavy and sweet like syrup. Sherlock must have said something in response—his back was to the window, so Benji couldn't see his face—before slowly raising a pill to his lips. Bloody idiot.

"Sherlock!" Benji shouted, trying to get his flatmate's attention. The windows were too thick, however, and the buildings were a distance apart where whatever whisper that could have escaped Benji's window was lost to the evening breeze. "Sherlock, you–!" Benji shouted again, before abruptly finished with trying to talk and raised his gun. There was the crack of a shot, thundering out and rolling down the yards and to the streets, but Benji didn't wait to see if anyone heard it; he took only a moment to release a breath before leaving the room. _"How does someone with martial arts skills like that end up as analyst?" Benji echoed what Ethan asked before, though this time he said it with a humorous tone. Will and Benji grinned at each other in disbelief the two had survived an entire squad of hired assassins on their own, before Will smirked. "How does a crackshot and medic like you start off as technician?" he returned, and Benji smiled away his comment. Will hit Benji's shoulder playfully. "You'll have to teach me how to fire so accurately like that sometime," the analyst joked, "one day I'll be shooting–I don't know–_arrows_ alongside of you. 'Hawkeye' and the Doctor, how does that sound?" How silly it all seemed at the time. They didn't know they practically told their future._

xxx Home xxx

Benji watched Sherlock and Lestrade from behind the yellow tape, far away enough to not be able to hear them, but near enough to catch Sherlock's gaze while the detective was no doubt listing off his observations about the shooter. It lasted a moment, with Sherlock squinting his eyes at Benji in question, before the latter looked away, nonchalantly watching the police car lights flash and cops move about, as if the ginger was just standing around. When Benji glanced back, Sherlock was heading towards him with eyes glued to Benji as he waved off Lestrade's insistence in getting the Holmes through questioning, as procedure dictated. Lestrade finally backed off, patient, and it was only when Sherlock arrived just behind the yellow tape that the tall man threw the shock blanket into the nearby police car. He ducked under the tape, and Benji cleared his throat, rocking on his heels back and forth before stopping in sight of Sherlock.

"Sergeant Donovan has been explaining," Benji stated. Sherlock's brows furrowed slightly. "Everything?" Benji nodded. "Two pills…" he drifted off, "it was dreadful, wasn't it? Dreadful." "And the shot," Sherlock addressed, and Benji desperately fought back the urge to smile. His flatmate wasn't going to let Benji get away without mentioning the shot, was he? "Yes, it must have been through that window," Benji gestured vaguely at the buildings. Sherlock smirked. "Oh, you'd know. You haven't got the powder burns off your fingers. I don't suppose you serve time for this, but let's ignore the core case," the detective said quickly. Benji cleared his throat, looking to his left and right casually, and Sherlock furrowed his brows. "Are you all right?" Benji looked back at him. "Yes of course I'm all right." "You have just killed a man." "Yes, I—" Benji paused. Sneaky, sneaky. Sherlock showed fake concern to draw out Benji affirming he had shot the cabbie. Benji's lips twitched. "It's true, isn't it. But he wasn't a very nice man." Sherlock burst in a short fit of…giggles? "No," he agreed, "no, he wasn't really, was he?" "–Yeah, and frankly a bloody awful cabbie." Benji's interjection with a comically serious face provoked a smile, to which Sherlock easily did. "That's true, he was a bad cabbie. You should have seen the route he took us to get here." Sherlock couldn't properly finish his sentence when he snorted, and the two flatmates started heading home with laughter spilling out their lips.

"Stop," Benji forced between breaths. "We can't giggle. It's a crime scene." His attempts to get serious only made the laughter worse. "Stop it," Benji tried again, but at this point, it was hilarious. "You're the one who shot him, not me," Sherlock retorted with a wide smile. Benji shot him a look. "Would you keep your voice down?" They passed Sally. "Sorry about that," Benji spoke to her in attempt to give reason to their poor attempts in mothering giggles, "it's just that…. Yeah, ahem, sorry." When they moved out of her earshot, and their laughter died down, Benji turned to Sherlock. "You were going to take that bloody pill, weren't you." "Of course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up." Benji gave him a look. "No you didn't. That's how you get your kicks isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever." Sherlock turned away, interested in Benji's thoughts about it. "Why would I do that?" "Because you're an idiot."

Sherlock suddenly looked at him, as if no one had said anything like that to him before. Chances were they didn't. Sherlock grinned. "Dinner?" Benji smiled back at him. "Starving." "There's a good Chinese place down at 22. You can always tell a good Chinese place by examining the bottom third of the door handle." Benji tugged on his flatmate's sleeve, jerking his head to where the mysterious gentleman had gotten out of a car. The ginger opened his mouth, when Sherlock sniffed with contempt. "I know exactly who that is," he answered without needing a question, and the gentleman approached the detective.

"So," the government official began with a stiff smile, "another case cracked. How very public spirited. That's never really your motivation, though, is it." "What are you doing here?" Sherlock bluntly asked, like a child not wanting supervision while playing in the sandbox. Benji raised a brow at that. "As ever, I'm concerned about you." The umbrella twirled again. Sherlock looked like he wanted to whack the gentleman with it. "Yes, I've been hearing about your concern," he glared. The other sighed. "Always so aggressive. Didn't it ever occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?" "Oddly enough, no." Was Benji witnessing…_two children argue_? The gentleman addressed the argument right on time. "We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish, people will suffer, and you know how it always upset Mummy." Sherlock looked offended. "_I_ upset her? Me? It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft!" Cue brain explosion. "No. No, wait. Mummy, who's 'Mummy?'" Benji interjected. "Mother–_Our_ mother. This is my brother Mycroft. Putting on weight again?" Sherlock said all of this without looking away from his sibling, obviously irritated with the older Holmes's presence.

"Losing it, in fact," Mycroft, as introduced, stated, and Benji was still trying to catch up with recent events. "He's your brother?" Benji clarified. His kidnapper and possible threat to his identity was his flatmate's _brother?_ "Of course he's my brother," Sherlock replied. There always was an "of course," Benji quickly learned. He wondered how he hadn't lost his patience with that, but, well, he wasn't Jane. Benji glanced around him, just in case the woman heard his thoughts and would beat him up for them. One never knew; that woman, while sweet, could be plain terrifiying. "So he's not…" Benji went back on track, and drifted off. "Not what?" Sherlock asked. Benji looked back at him. "I don't know, a criminal mastermind." Sherlock shrugged. "Close enough." "For goodness sake," Mycroft looked ready to roll his eyes, "I occupy a minor position in the British government." "He _is_ the British government," Sherlock scoffed. "When he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis. Good evening Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home, you know what it does for the traffic." The detective stalked away, and Benji looked after him, before glancing back at the older Holmes. "It actually is a childish feud?" he clarified. Mycroft sighed. "He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners." "Yeah." Benji realised he couldn't, and choked. "No. Goodness, no. Uhm…hello," he addressed Anthea. The brunette looked up from her Blackberry. "Hello." "Yes. We met earlier on this evening." She blinked. Benji waited. She blinked again. "Oh!" "–Okay. Goodnight." Benji went after Sherlock, thinking that was the worst conversation he had with a girl all his life if she couldn't even remember meeting him the same day.

Benji cleared his throat. "So, dim sum." Sherlock grinned. "Mm. I can always predict the fortune cookies." "No you can't." "Almost can. You did get shot though." Benji looked at him as the taller man hailed a taxi. "Sorry?" Sherlock opened the door. "In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound." "Oh! Yeah, the shoulder." Benji got in the cab after Sherlock. "Shoulder! I thought so." Benji rolled his eyes. "No you didn't." "The left one," Sherlock stated, and Benji gave the address to the driver before saying to his flatmate, "Lucky guess." "I never guess." "Yes you do." Sherlock gave Benji that look again, the one as if the detective hadn't expected Benji's actions, and the Holmes looked out the window, smiling. Benji raised a brow at him. "What are you so happy about?" he asked. "Moriarty," he replied, as if the word held heavy meaning. Benji looked at him.

"What's Moriarty?"

"I have absolutely _no_ idea."

Soon enough, the sight of 221b pulled up to Benji's window. Home. Associating the flat with the term "home" felt foreign, but Benji was already knee-deep into this, wasn't he? A government official already approached him about his flatmate, Sherlock had already led him to a dead body in a crime scene whereas Benji and his team were usually the ones who put it there—though IMF clean up always took care of that—and Benji already killed a man for the detective. This was it. This was the first chapter to the life of Jonathan Hamish Watson, retired army doctor currently living with the world's first and only consulting detective. Benji got out of the cab and took the leap.

–––

**A/N: I made a Woodkid reference by the title of "Run Boy Run," which is actually the name of a song of theirs. ;) Phew! One episode down, several more chapters to go! Thank you for reading and for your support; there will be more in the future, though I warn of slow updates. These things take long to write! :D**

Disclaimer: I don't own Mission Impossible nor BBC's Sherlock.  
Special thanks to planet claire . org (no spaces) for providing quotes of BBC's Sherlock!


	5. Days Three to Eight

**Days Three to Eight, Sherlock's Point of View**

xxx **Day Three** xxx

"That's the frailty of genius, John. It needs an audience." "…Yeah." _Rewind_. "…frailty of genius, John–" _Pause. Observe. Fast forward_. "…Yeah." **There. **The subject had a slight twitch of the fingers and held the look of resolute resistance against the body's reaction to flinch. The mystery was in the why. Sherlock already had his conclusion—John didn't like to be called John—but the reason for such hadn't presented itself despite the observing Sherlock had done over the doctor and the length of time spent with said flatmate. The consulting detective already constructed many plausible theories, but none seemed to fit into the puzzle that was Dr. John Watson, as if the pieces appeared the right shape but ended up like lopsided Legos and not a complete picture. Sherlock raised prayer-like hands to his lips, thinking deeper. _Perhaps I need to look into an event earlier than the trip to Northumberland Street_, Sherlock decided, and he recalled the conversation in the flat.

_"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor." John's gaze moves from staring ahead of himself to Sherlock, meeting the detective's eyes evenly. "Yes." Spoken so softly, yet so precise; a stark difference from what Sherlock would expect of a soldier. Perhaps the doctor had seen much? A step closer. "Any good?" The subject makes up for it by standing, his instincts having identified the lessened distance as a possible threat. If John is aware of it, he doesn't let it show. "Very good." Ah, confidence. Sherlock could only imagine how the army doctor had been in the battlefield. Breathtaking, maybe. He was probably a good captain too, though John hadn't confessed to being a captain yet. All in good time, Sherlock supposed. "You've seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths." Annoyance at Sherlock's asking, instead of regret at the memories, touches the doctor's features. Interesting. "A bit of trouble too, I bet." John's body relaxes a notch when Sherlock stops arm's length away. Was it by instinct or consciousness that John reacted in such a way? It had happened twice already, the first with the standing. Sherlock desperately wanted more information, but he didn't know where to search. "Of course, enough for a lifetime. Far too much." Sherlock ponders over his decision, before following through. "Want to see more?" "_Please_, yes." A bit more of a push, and the shaking in John's hand would disappear by the time Sherlock had him observe the suicide victim's corpse. What surprised Sherlock, however, was that the hand had ceased shaking with the first syllable Sherlock uttered into the room. John could have been ready to shoot an opponent who attacked him right then and there, Sherlock realised. The tremor came back when John realised Sherlock was the one who had entered the room almost like a ghost, a small window of time, so there wasn't much more to observe, but Sherlock learned enough. The doctor had precise war instincts; he was used to attacks coming when he least expected it. Somehow–though Sherlock doubted this stemmed only from war instincts, perhaps something more vicious–the doctor knew someone had come to the room without seeing it. _

"Sherlock, Lestrade just called–said something about a questioning!" John called from the steps, having arrived from the chute. Sherlock resurfaced from his thinking. "I don't want to, it's much too boring and pointless." John appeared with a sleek black iPhone in his hands and a pointed look on his face. "Sitting around can't possibly be more productive than helping the police." The Holmes met his eyes, but the doctor didn't waver. Sherlock sighed. The retired soldier wouldn't take no for an answer, would he? "I'm going," he said, and John rolled his eyes at his childish nature.

xxx **Day Four** xxx

The first time Sherlock heard the moans, he was checking on an experiment in the fridge. When the detective approached John's door–quietly, so as not to awake him if the doctor truly was asleep–the Holmes realised his flatmate was experiencing a nightmare. The moans of pleading and pain started raising to screaming, and for the first time in many years, Sherlock began to panic. What would one do when an individual is suffering from war memories? He could play the violin, Sherlock supposed, but that would probably summon the wrath of a soldier in retirement woken up too early in the morning, and he filed the idea away for later. He couldn't ignore the chance of ruffling up people's feathers, after all. It was much too fun. "J–" Sherlock hesitated. John didn't like to be addressed by his name, as compared to the majority of people, and Sherlock didn't have enough data to deduct as to why and find a way of addressment that would allow his flatmate to know it was Sherlock at the door, and that he was asking if the doctor was okay. Entering without warning ahead of time could result in the doctor instinctively attacking whoever was trying to wake him up, so that was a no go as well. How could this be hard? It was standard procedure: call the individual's name, knock on his or her door lightly, and enter. Most would relax when all three occured while they were suffering a sort of physical or emotional trauma, but Sherlock had neither a name nor protective gear. Sherlock decided he'd just go with the knocking.

John's screaming died down after a good two round of knocks, and a quarter of a minute following, the doctor's breathing pattern finally matched that of a person awake. "John?" Sherlock asked, and his flatmate paused. "Sherlock?" Said detective took that as his cue to come in, and he caught a glimpse of John stuffing something under his pillow before peering through the darkness at the figure of the taller man. If Sherlock shook his flatmate awake, John wouldn't make ready to punch; he'd grab a gun. Sherlock could make at least one solid deduction: they were the oddest pair of flatmates England has ever seen. "You were experiencing a nightmare," Sherlock stated. John's silhouette moved, no doubt looking at the clock, before facing him again. "Yes," he agreed, before the rustle of cloth sounded. Sherlock stepped away, where John got up from his bed, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry. I didn't think I'd have them again, so I never mentioned." The man yawned, before pointedly looking at Sherlock. "Why are you awake?" The detective didn't deign the ex-soldier with an answer. The shadow of John's head moved, and Sherlock guessed he was looking out the door. "Why are the lights on? Have you slept at all the past few hours?" Sherlock recieved a good, lengthy lecture of one's body functions and the importance of sleep that morning–something he didn't pay attention to and wouldn't follow anyway–and the Holmes learned not to stay long enough for that to happen if he ever had to wake up John from a nightmare again. If John was too sleepy to argue because of a violin playing even _earlier_ in the morning, however, then perhaps Sherlock wouldn't have to face such lectures. It was an idea.

xxx **Day Five** xxx

"Where did you go?" "Sorry, what?"

The scent of pancakes wafted from the kitchen, and, if Sherlock looked past John's chair to where said flatmate was cooking, a small container of syrup could be seen on the table. "Where did you go two days ago? You came back with a new phone." John glanced over his shoulder at the dark-haired man relaxed on the couch, not bothering to help with cooking or setting the table. John wouldn't allow him, anyway–not after Sherlock showed adepts at causing explosions and throwing knives at the wall when bored. Someday he might start shooting, but John hadn't allowed the gun anywhere near Sherlock, so the detective would probably have to get his own. "Two days ago," John echoed, trailing off in memory as he flipped a pancake. "I went to my father's grave, and I got a new phone." Sherlock tilted his head in thought as the other finished with the stove and set the pancakes on the table, away from the chemistry set. "Your father?" he clarified. Sherlock had noticed letters come in from an individual known as Charlie Watson, and unless John had a brother he hadn't mentioned or yet another sister who preferred masculine names, this Charlie could only be an older male relative. The probability it was the dad was higher; John didn't seem too close with his inner family, and hadn't spoken of any cousins or aunts and uncles. John nodded. "My blood father. My mum remarried to Charlie." He paused. "But you knew that already, didn't you?" The remarriage, no, but that Charlie was John's father wasn't too hard to deduct. Sherlock didn't say anything, however, but John smiled, entertained and amazed of his flatmate. He suddenly frowned, a brow raised like a parent about to scold. Sherlock immediately knew what was coming, and could say what the other was about to say before the words would even come out, but John wouldn't like that too much.

"Aren't you going to eat? First the sleeping, and now this. Don't think I forgot about those nicotine patches either, Sherlock. None of your habits can possibly be healthy." Sherlock crossed his legs. "Says the one eating breakfast for lunch," he sniffed. John had the decency to blush. "Yes, well…." The pancakes and syrup were tons of calories and sugars, and the only reason the doctor hadn't had a heart attack as of yet what with his odd choices for the meals of the day was because Sherlock had kept him up on his toes with crime-solving and chasing people across London. The detective had a sneaking suspicion his flatmate went through exercises of his own, because sometimes he'd disappear for a while and come back sweatier or in a new change of clothes, a water bottle always in his hand. Sherlock wasn't aware of any gymnasiums nearby, but the chute could bring the doctor anywhere, so there was that. "At least I'm _eating_." John pulled Sherlock back to the conversation. "Eating," he stated, and swung his legs up on the couch and faced the ceiling. "Ugh, no. Eating's boring." He didn't have to look at the doctor to know he was rolling his eyes.

xxx **Day Six** xxx

John was staring into a window, entranced by the sweet melody tinkling out the store door partially left open for the breeze to come in. Sherlock's head was turned to his flatmate, simply observing. They were passing by a music store to head to Scotland Yard for a case, when John suddenly stopped in the middle of walking and gazed at the teacher and student at the piano, working on several pieces. The world moved on without the two, pedestrians moving around them and cars going down streets without missing a beat in the current of traffic and the usual flow of city life, the point in space which John and Sherlock occupied seemingly detached from everything except the sound of piano keys. Sherlock opened his mouth, and hesitated. Handling an individual like John required more thinking than the usual idiot on the street. His own name seemed to bring a sort of pain, and there were so many possibilities and theories as to how the doctor would react when addressed by his name in several situations, Sherlock wondered if he dared pluck at the strings in the delicate web that was John's life. He did so anyway.

"John?"

Said ex-soldier whipped his head to the side, taken by surprise as if having forgotten he was walking with Sherlock in the first place. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. "Sorry, it's just. I'm sorry. I had a friend who played the piano, but she quit after her boyfriend died. The team and I have tried to get her back on it, but lately…." He stopped, as if realising he had spoken of something he wasn't supposed to. Sherlock raised a hand, and paused, awkward. He was never one to deal with emotions, and this sort of social issue was a new situation to be in in which as a flatmate, he had a sort of responsibility to comfort his partner. Emotions. Dull and useless, but John seemed to defy several laws of science. Sherlock placed his hand on John's shoulder. "You don't have to apologise for everything, John. It's pointless and unnecessary." He inwardly winced. How come most of the things that left his mouth were, while factual, sometimes a little blunt and harsh? John appeared comforted anyway. "No, no, you're right." He smiled. "Thank you." Sherlock blinked. "I didn't do anything." John shook his head. "You were yourself, and that's enough." John continued walking, and Sherlock paused to look at the pair at the piano, before catching up with the doctor.

xxx **Day Seven** xxx

Sherlock stared up at the figure on the roof, the detective waving his arms. "Just jump, John, that's not even more than four metres high!" "What do you mean _just_?" the doctor hollered back, hesitant. "I'm pretty sure the only way to survive a fall like this is if there are three mattresses below, or at least a moving van I can use to prevent this to be an all-out suicide!" Sherlock filed away the responses for later analysis and deduction, but right now they were losing time. The killer was going to escape to the chute any moment now, and John was still refusing to follow through the leap Sherlock suggested when the thin wooden ladder the Holmes used to go down broke. "20.3 seconds until the killer escapes to the chute," Sherlock warned, but that didn't seem to encourage John as intended. If anything, that made the doctor worse. "The countdown is _not_ helpi—" His voice suddenly cut off, and Sherlock tried sharpening his gaze on John when he worried something bad had happened to the ex-soldier, but nothing else was on the roof with the ginger. John was just standing, frozen. Sherlock's brows furrowed. Was this…a flashback? "John?" Sherlock called out, more softly. "John, don't worry, I'll catch you." John seemed to mumble something to himself. "Will…." Sherlock blinked at the name. Had he heard correctly? John seemed to be in a bit of a daze, and Sherlock wasn't at a good distance to hear indoor-level sounds correctly, but the detective could read John's lips well enough. Who was Will? A fellow soldier John had fought with in the army? "Jo–" Why oh why couldn't Sherlock deduct the right name the doctor wanted to be addressed as? The Holmes shook his head, before opting to just say his message without using John's name. He raised his arms, trying to catch John's attention. "Jump, and I'll catch you!" That seemed to snap the doctor out of his daze, and the ginger looked down at Sherlock, staring at him for a moment, before a small smile lit his lips. "Yeah…I know." John shook his head, grinning as he said this. "I know you will." As if done going down memory lane, the ex-soldier took a step back, ready to leap off the roof. "Are you ready?" he asked from above. Sherlock scoffed. "I should be asking _you_ that." John chuckled good-naturedly. "I'm coming!"

John jumped, and Sherlock caught him.

The two men huffed, Sherlock on his bum with John ontop of him, the latter's arms sloppily wrapped around the detective's neck in instinct at the fall. They looked at each other and blinked, before laughing at how messy and ridiculous they must look. "I think the most you did was cushion the landing," John mumbled from between coat and sweater. Sherlock had dragged John out before the doctor could grab his jacket, and the detective reminded himself to find a way to convince John to get a more…tasteful set of sweaters, and not the tacky ones John insisted on owning. "I still caught you," Sherlock pointed out, and John met his eyes again, a wide grin on his face. "Yes, I suppose you did." The doctor got up, helping his flatmate along the way, and they stood there for a moment, Sherlock fixing his coat collar and John fixing his sleeves. "I guess we missed the killer," John commented, and Sherlock looked at him. "Yes, but the Yard didn't." John turned to him with a raised a brow. "The Yard?" Sherlock shrugged, as if the little bit of information he held was nothing. "I may have dropped a message on Lestrade's phone that their murderer was heading to the station coincidentally near the Scotland Yard." John burst in laughter. "That's what this whole chase was? To corner the killer to where the police were waiting?" He laughed some more. "Brilliant." Sherlock felt himself flush a bit with pride, but thankfully John wasn't looking. "That wasn't my only goal," the dark-haired stated, and he was met with a confused expression. "What else were you planning?" John asked, but Sherlock simply smiled, and started heading back to the flat. "Sherlock!" John half-whined, hurrying to walk alongside him, but Sherlock didn't indulge his flatmate with his secret: that he was observing _him_. The same night, John slept peacefully without a single interruption, and if anyone looked, they'd find Sherlock smiling to himself as he worked through another experiment in the kitchen.

There would be no more nightmares in 221b. Not if Sherlock could help it.

xxx **Day Eight** xxx

"Sherlock! Here with your date again?" Angelo greeted. "Colleague," John corrected, and Sherlock marvelled how quickly his flatmate preferred the latter term rather than the many people often used. _Friend_ was one of them, _date_ another, especially used by old companions who have gotten to know enough of Sherlock that a recurring face must mean _something_. Sherlock offered a smile. "I'll take the usual booth, Angelo," he greeted back, and the Italian nodded jovially with an, "Of course, of course!" The pair were seated, and the house special was already being prepared for them without having to ask what the two would order. This time Sherlock and John were not there to search for a killer, but to simply get food, as John refused to cook anything past breakfast items, and Mrs. Hudson was pushing them out the flat to get something other than Chinese take out. John drummed his fingers against the table, casually observing the room, but Sherlock didn't miss the way his flatmate's eyes looked sharp. He always did that, whenever the doctor sat down to wait for the take out, when he'd stand aside while Sherlock interrogated a witness or deducted a dead body, or even when the ginger simply stepped into a room—he searched. For what, Sherlock didn't know yet, but sometimes the detective felt like his flatmate was checking if anyone was armed, or without a weapon but equally as dangerous. The pattern of drumming, though, Sherlock recognised, and he knew John was thinking. "Something bothering you?" he decided to ask, and John's blue eyes turned to him. "Hmm?" The doctor seemed to pause for a moment, his eyes darting to the door momentarily when a couple walked in—as if they could be planning to attack us, but no, they're not armed, calm_ down_, John—and he shrugged, oblivious to Sherlock's mental talk with him. "Why do they always do that? Some of your old friends, I mean; they always label me as your 'date.'" Ah, so the retired soldier had noticed that. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, and the server placed two House Specials before the 221b flatmates before leaving to serve another table.

"Everyone's an idiot," Sherlock offered his usual answer to everything, and John sighed, before deciding his pasta was worth more than giving a lecture on statements like Sherlock's. Said detective ate some of his own food, but he didn't feel too hungry. The brain simply doesn't function well with food in the stomach, but the look John sent across the table at him completely disagreed. The Holmes caved in and took another bite of pasta, before John's raised brow got him to finishing his entire meal. Sherlock leaned back in his seat when he was done, which was about the same time John had finished, and while the plates were taken away, the detective asked, "Why did you ask about the 'date' thing?" John took a moment to collect his thoughts, but before a word could leave his lips, Sherlock went on. "You don't appear offended by being associated as my date, but you feel a sort of rejection to the idea, as if you don't mind simply acting the role as long as there's no opportunity of getting emotionally attached to it. Did you have to do the in the army, act out identities so that others wouldn't notice? Perhaps something deeper, like undercover work–" "Yes." Sherlock opened his mouth again to try to get an answer out of his flatmate, when he realised he was given it, on a silver platter and all. He closed his mouth and blinked. "Yes," John verified with a steely gaze. "Now please stop asking." The doctor got up, thanking the server and handing over the cash for the check, before leaving the restaurant. Sherlock took a moment to take in what just happened before he followed his flatmate out the door, but not before Angelo caught him with a hand on his arm. "There's always a next time, Sherlock." The detective didn't feel like putting effort to smile back at the Italian, despite the owner's misinterpretation, and Angelo let him go out the door without another word.

"John!" Sherlock called out, but the ex-soldier was stubbornly ignoring him. "John," Sherlock breathed as he caught up next to the ginger, but John still wasn't looking at the detective. "I realise I may have touched upon a sensitive subject for you, and–" "Just leave it," the ginger finally met his eyes. His face was unreadable, but his hand wasn't shaking. Sherlock took a step back. What was affecting John enough for him to suddenly become like this? "I've upset you," he stated, and John didn't deny it. "Undercover work was never my specialty," the ex-soldier confessed, "and I've had bad experiences with that kind of work and more, so I'm asking we don't talk about that any longer." He took a shaky breath, as if a memory was pushing to the surface until he forced it back. "Please," he finished, and Sherlock nodded. "Alright," the Holmes agreed, "Calm down." John's face reddened a bit at his moment of weakness, but it went away quickly and he continued walking, meekly allowing Sherlock to lead by two steps. The nightmares were no problem now, but memories had to have triggered them, and a simple round of parkour wouldn't make John come to peace with them. Sherlock inwardly sighed to himself. He had his work cut out for him.

Sherlock didn't notice he already started to consider John a part of his work.

–––

**A/N: The woman Benji was talking about in Day 6 was Jane, if anyone didn't know. "The countdown is _not_ helping!" is what Ethan said when he was scaling the tower and Brandt was counting down to the door knock. I realise there are many preferences as to the relationship Sherlock and John share, and I say you may interpret anything as to how you want it, romantic or platonic. The same goes for Benji's relationship with his IMF teammates! :) This one was a little short, I know, but I want to get started on writing the Blind Banker soon! If you haven't guessed, I'm going to alternate between POVs. **

**Please continue to support my stories, you guys are the reason I embrace creative ideas and writing! **


	6. Day Nine

**Day Nine (The Blind Banker)**

xxx Spilled Milk xxx

Benji headed up the stairs with groceries in his hands, noting Sherlock wasn't in the flat and that Mrs. Hudson had gone off to spend a day with some of her friends, so no one would be able to help him with the groceries, as usual. Into the kitchen, he heaved the bags on an uncluttered part of the island and tossed the flat keys in a bowl under the cabinets storing plates and glasses. The cabinet beside it stored Sherlock's lab things, which was locked securely so that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't accidentally open it and mess up the light-sensitive ingredients again. One moment Benji was confident he was alone in the flat, next he turned around to put away the groceries and a woman was standing between him and the island.

Moreau.

Benji immediately responded with a punch, but the French woman blocked it and reached to grab his left shoulder, the one that got shot, and Benji instinctively kicked at her knees. She grabbed Benji's arm and threw him to the side, where he caught himself against the fridge. The Brit scrambled back up and snatched the flat keys, and Moreau found a carving knife from one of Sherlock's experiments; the two struck at each other, but Benji was always the team's technician and doctor, never the one who went in and took out marks. It seemed only the blink of an eye before Benji found the knife pinning the cloth of his right leg's pants on the counter surface, himself forcibly leaning backwards with his hands pinned to either side of his head by Moreau on the locked cabinet. Said woman's cheek had a thin line of red, courtesy to Benji's duelling with keys. The French and Brit were breathing a little heavily—Benji more so, as Moreau no doubt had limitless stamina as one of the world's best assassins—and the doctor only didn't panic when Moreau said, "I'm not here to kill you."

He froze, slowly absorbing what seemed highly improbable, for Moreau only showed up when she wanted diamonds or blood, and he relaxed marginally, though his body was still tense in preparation for an attack or to run away. "If you're not here to kill me, then do you mind letting my wrists go? Your grip kind of hurts." She glared. "While you are an _insulte_ as a fighter, you're still a field agent." "Right," Benji muttered to himself. A moment of silence passed over them, Benji hyper-aware of the taller woman leaning on his wrists, which did really hurt, before he cleared his throat awkwardly. "So, um, how is it you're alive?" She scoffed. "Someone left a glove on the side of the building. I have razor-sharp heels." Ah, one of the gloves Benji gave Ethan to scale the Burj Khalifa had provided the French assassin a way out, though she had an unbelievable desire to survive, if she would break a window with razor heels just to stay alive. If she didn't come to kill him, then why reveal she still lived by seeing Benji? The Brit almost asked that, when she interrupted his thoughts.

"Why is it that of your team, _you_ were the only one I could find?" Benji blinked in confusion, and, looking into her blue-green eyes, he wondered if she meant to leave it unanswered, but he tried to produce a reply. "Well, I suppose it's not that hard to discover there's an armed doctor running all over London with a self-claimed sociopath," he reasoned. She didn't seem amused by his sense of humour, so Benji refrained from talking anymore. "Of all agents and hitmen I've confronted, you don't seem too interested in hiding," she spoke, leaning in more, analysing his eyes. Benji felt uncomfortable. "What happened? Has your team been disbanded?" she interrogated. The doctor counted himself lucky he lasted this long with only a few bruises from the fight, as he knew Moreau wouldn't hold back once the French had incentive. Benji was just glad he wasn't Jane. Why the assassin would observe Benji face-to-face confused him, though; why risk the advantage of believing to be dead just to meet an _insulte _of a fighter like Benji? Why was he worth her time?

Evidently having found something, Moreau leaned back, allowing space between them, but her grip was tight, just in case. Benji's fingers were staring to tingle from the lack of blood. "Your government betrayed you," she stated. Benji's brows furrowed. "What makes you think that?" he defended, not wanting for her to gain information about IMF's current condition. Her eyes were hard, sharp, and unreadable like the diamonds she so valued. "You have the look of someone let down." The pressure on his wrists suddenly disappeared, and before Benji could do anything, she left the room, her catlike steps ghostly silent down the flat stairs. The ex-agent waited a moment before he threw the keys back into the bowl, pulled the knife off his pants, and put it away in the dishwasher. The counter had a cut in it, now, but hopefully Sherlock wouldn't notice. Given the detective's being hyper-observant, that seemed unlikely, but Benji wouldn't know how to explain himself, so he crossed his fingers he wouldn't be interrogated for a second time that day. He glanced at the kitchen island, where the milk carton had been stabbed by Moreau's carving knife during their short fight, spilling its contents everywhere. Benji sighed. Perhaps crossing fingers wouldn't be enough.

xxx Groceries xxx

After cleaning up the mess and disposing of the damaged groceries in a separate trash bin so Sherlock wouldn't see them, Benji went out to the market again, only to get caught in a fight with a PIN machine. Sadly enough, the machine won. Trudging up 221b steps for a second time, Benji returned to see a relaxed, totally-not-bored-Sherlock on the couch with his nose in a book, legs crossed as he daintily turned a page. Sherlock. Acting civilised. Benji checked to see if the kitchen had been blown up. Surprised and relieved the flat still stood intact, Benji headed to the kitchen and tossed his keys in the bowl, before noting a new scratch on the kitchen island. "You've been sitting there all day," Benji commented. Not true, as Sherlock had been sitting when Benji left and had vanished the time Moreau swung by. Sherlock turned another page. "You took your time," he commented back, and Benji sighed as he headed to his chair. "Yeah, I didn't get the groceries." "What? Why not?" the consulting detective asked with a raised a brow and a bemused voice, aware of Benji's need to always have food in the fridge just in case the doctor had an urge to eat breakfast food anytime of the day. "Because I had a row in the shop with a chip and PIN machine," Benji easily stated, reaching for the mail on the table beside him. There was silence on Sherlock's end, and then, "You had a _row_ with a _machine_?" Benji fought down a blush of embarrassment. "Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse." The doctor coughed. "Anyway, what of that case on the stolen jewel and everything?" "Unnecessary," Sherlock crossed his legs again, "I sent them my message." Benji resolutely ignored the flash of steel in the corner of his vision, though the characteristically curved blade of Arabian origin explained the new scratch on the island.

Looking over the mail, Benji sighed. Bills. He never thought he'd find himself dreading them again, but without being able to access his bank account—which was known by IMF—without the secretary noticing, the ex-agent would just have to deal with it. "Take my credit card," Sherlock's voice startled Benji back to reality. The detective's bright green eyes met Benji's blue ones with a hint of amusement. "Then you can get the groceries. Oh, and we're out of milk, by the way." His eyes returned to his book, and Benji scoffed. "Why don't you buy the groceries yourself?" "I have more important things to worry about." The ex-agent stared at his flatmate before muttering under his breath and getting up, taking Sherlock's credit card from the wallet on the island and leaving.

At the marketplace, Benji stared at a hair salon, contemplating. If Moreau could find him in a little more than a week, couldn't the new IMF secretary do the same? The ex-agent had been careful, keeping a presence of mind and a hold on his intuition to make certain he wasn't under surveillance or that anyone was shadowing him. When Mycroft contacted him, the cameras would search for and keep him within sight for a good minute before a black car would pull up on his side. The older Holmes brother appeared confident he didn't need men on the ground to know where Benji is before picking him up, and the government official kept to efficiency by not wasting agents on a menial task as finding Benji's location. The doctor didn't mind; aware of the camera pattern, he knew when Mycroft was going to "kidnap" him even if Mycroft didn't know he knew, and if Benji had a shadow, or he saw someone whose clothes and looks were all _wrong, wrong, wrong_, the ex-agent knew he had permission to scare the individual a bit since the person wouldn't be any of Mycroft's. For highly observant people, the Holmes weren't too aware of how dangerous Benji could be, but all the more fun, he supposed.

That aside, Benji probably needed to step up his game in order to keep off the secretary's radar, and he counted himself lucky Moreau was one of the best assassins in the world, so he at least had a warning or heads up to try harder in hiding or else the secretary would find him. Benji checked the cash in his pocket, having taken Sherlock's credit card since the cash alone wasn't enough to buy all the groceries, but the money was enough to get hair dyed. Such a shame—Benji actually liked his natural hair colour, but some things came first. _"This is Woodsman; I'm in." "Wolf, approaching target." "Cameras are frozen, thanks to Little Red." "Grandma here, got the data; meet me at evac point RA36 once Wolf's drugged the target—" "I've just got to ask, why am I Little Red? She's a girl, and I'm a guy, so I fail to see the connection." "It's your hair, idiot, or do you want to be Pluto again?" "Wolf, permission to shove Woodsman off a three-thousand foot height? I'll still catch him." "Denied." "Permission for a __**four**__-thousand foot height?" _Snicker._ "Denied." "I heard that laugh, Wolf, don't think I didn't!" "Oh, shut up, helper." "Boys, get a hold of yourselves."_ Benji stared harder at the hair salon. To dye or not to dye….

xxx Straying Thoughts xxx

"The security of your computer is noteworthy," Sherlock commented, eyes on the detective's computer. Benji put the groceries away. "You tried using it?" he clarified. "Yes, but evidently, I don't know enough about the medical and military fields to come up with a password that would unlock your computer." A hint of irritation coloured his voice. "I was so sure it was cptnhamish3082." Benji froze. "How did you know my rank was Captain?" he asked. Of course, that was the rank his papers said, but Sherlock was known to refuse Mycroft's help for anything, especially information. The detective shrugged. "Maybe the rough way you go about things that hints to considerable military experience, and you only rise up the ranks from staying long enough and from good reviews from superiors. What with the way you choose some moments to be silent and observe, you're obviously used to being ordered around by or following orders of a superior, but your attitude to some individuals shows you're not one to be pushed around, so you weren't entirely at the bottom of the ranks." The dark-haired man clicked something. "It wasn't too hard to deduct." Benji laughed at his flatmate's character. "Amazing," Benji said, and he meant it. If he really was what his cover info said he was, he'd be stunned at how spot on the self-proclaimed psychopath got on everything, but it was not to be. It didn't mean he wasn't amazed at how observant and knowledgeable Sherlock proved to be, because by no means did the detective shine less brightly than some brilliant IMF individuals Benji knew, like Ethan and Luther, Brassle and—

Goodness. _Brassle_. How could Benji forget the Chief Executive of IMF? The tough, inspirational black man whose undaunting, average height was made up for with wit and few but meaningful words had fought tooth and nail with the new secretary in the latter's decisions that would lead to the division's liquidation. The new secretary couldn't fire Brassle as the man had proved himself a capable and immovable chief executive, and the act alone would cause suspicion with the secretary's superiors, so they reached a stalemate; the secretary was forced to leave everything related to the Rabbit's Foot alone, which was under Brassle's care, and Brassle couldn't dictate the secretary's decisions. As long as IMF had missions and responsibility over something only they could handle—such as the mysterious Rabbit's Foot that all Ethan knew was that it was contained, watched over, and studied under Brassle's care—IMF would continue to stand and couldn't be merged into the secretary's previous division. The secretary started using the IMF and his previous division's agents to get rid of the IMF agents loyal to the last secretary, though those assassination missions were kept off the record in order to ensure the new secretary kept his position over IMF. When Ethan and the team were targeted, Brassle helped by stalling the agents sent to kill them, and the last memory Benji had of the Chief Executive was the new secretary walking up to the black man, his loyal agents pointing guns at Brassle.

"You…" Benji looked up from putting away the milk in the fridge at Sherlock's voice. "Hm?" Benji hummed. Sherlock was staring at the doctor, then awkwardly turning back to his laptop, before looking at the doctor again. "You…changed your hair. Blonde." "Oh," Benji nodded, done with the milk and moving to his chair. "Yeah, I decided to go fresh; a new look, you know?" The ex-agent sat down and picked up a newspaper, more to avoid his flatmate's eyes so the detective wouldn't spot the emotion behind Benji's words, hinting that there was more to the new look than Benji claimed. "Was it a woman?" Benji blinked, then put the paper down, looking at Sherlock. "What?" The Holmes turned back to his computer, typing away. "Normally, when a male changes his look, it's because of a woman." Benji hid behind his newspaper again, torn between laughing out loud or choking on air in surprise. Moreau _had_ influenced his dying his hair, but not in the way Sherlock seemed to be implying. "Not entirely," Benji answered, before remembering. "Oh, Sherlock, about the bills," "–I need to go to the bank." The Holmes got up from his chair and left the flat, Benji staring after him with a raised brow before scrambling after his flatmate.

xxx Helping a Friend xxx

"With all the access of the doors recorded and only one entrance and exit to the office, we don't know how the criminal broke in." Seb Wilkes gestured to the office with the graffitied painting, tired. "Look around all you want. Tell us how we got broken in, and we'll pay you." Seb took out a check from his inner breast pocket and handed it to Sherlock, an old acquaintance from college days. "This is in advance." Sherlock didn't even glance at it, simply curtly replying "I don't need incentive" before pivoting off his heel to mentally take in what he could of the crime scene. Benji watched after him, especially startled when he knew his flatmate was aware of their trouble paying rent, and he let loose a nervous laugh. "He's, ah, kidding you. I'll take that." Seb gave it to Sherlock's "friend"–colleague, Benji had corrected Seb in first meeting him, to which had earned Benji the gaze of Sherlock's piercing green eyes before Seb unintentionally blocked its path–and when Benji felt the weight of a good number of zeroes, he sighed in content and disbelief his flatmate had turned it down. That was Sherlock, Benji supposed.

Benji watched Sherlock take pictures of the graffiti for a moment before stepping out of the office space to the hallway open to escalators and a high ceiling. He wouldn't be much help to the consultant detective, and even less help to the bank employees simply standing in the way, so Benji decided to map out an emergency escape route and keep an eye on camera locations and possible sniper positions, just in case. He couldn't afford Sherlock noticing Benji make such mental notes, not without possibly compromising his cover or, even worse, cause Mycroft to investigate in the odd behaviour of his little brother's flatmate. It was as Benji was identifying the last camera in his sight when his iPhone chimed with a text message. Curious, as Sherlock was most likely still playing detective and Mrs. Hudson had gone out to have tea with friends. Benji took out his phone and froze at the image message displayed on his lock screen.

It was a grainy photo taken in the dark. Everything was at a tilt, so the amateur photographer had snapped the picture while hiding, most likely explaining the dark blocks taking up most of the picture's sides; a wall, maybe? Crates? The focus of the shot, however, was the sealed metal crate being rolled up a ramp into a military airplane by shadowed men, working in the night. A radioactive symbol was stamped on the metal crate. The sender, when Benji glanced at the contact, was E. Hunt.

Ethan.

How the man did it, Benji didn't know, but he didn't put it past the man he admired to sneak into an obviously well-guarded and covert government base to investigate something Ethan thought worthy of critical attention. Knowing the agent's tendencies, however, Benji wouldn't be surprised if Ethan had scaled metal walls and ten-foot fences just to get in…. Benji took a moment to pull himself out of his thoughts and glance at the entrance into the office space Sherlock was moving about in. The floor they were on was quite high, but if one had the right incentive climbing the side of a bank building wouldn't be a problem. Before Benji could consider sharing his thoughts with Sherlock, his phone chimed with another message, this time a text and not an image. This one, however, turned Benjis' blood cold.

_Brassle lost it._

Benji's hands were perfectly still, the battle instincts kicking in and turning shaky hands into a killer's ones. Not sparing another heartbeat, Benji quickly unlocked his phone and texted back to his group leader and friend. _"–Where to?"_ A few seconds went by after the message was sent before Benji received a reply. _"–Out of the country. Specific location unknown."_ That meant this was the only time Ethan and Benji knew the cargo's location; if they didn't do anything to stop its flight, they'd lose it forever. Benji's blood couldn't get colder. Ethan sent another text. _"–How should I stop it?"_ Recalling times when an agent got in a pickle with only Benji to try clicking a few computer keys and save them, Benji realised that with no physical way to fix the problem, Ethan had practically asked Benji for the next plan of action. It made sense, as Benji was the most technologically comfortable among the team and most likely among anyone Ethan knew, but calling the shots on something so major and important had never fallen to Benji's shoulders before. He needed more information. _"–When does it leave?"_ Benji didn't need to know why the weaponry was being sent to another country, only the data essential for stopping it. _"–ETA 3 minutes."_ Benji winced. It took 7 minutes just taking down military-grade firewalls, and while he had improved since the mission with the Russian nuclear mission launch codes, he was still no magician. One thing missions with Ethan taught Benji, however, was that one never knew until he tried.

Frantically searching for a computer while trying not to appear distressed, Benji spotted Seb Wilke's secretary and flirted a bit to gain access to a computer. Making sure no eyes but Benji's could see his screen, he started hacking away in record time, first ensuring the acts he would do would be untraceable to him and the computer, then fighting through American cyber security to locate the base Ethan had sent the texts from. It was with mere seconds left on the clock and only a few keystrokes of data away from stopping the airplane's leaving the government base did Sherlock's voice startle Benji. "John!" the consultant detective had called out, searching for his flatmate and looking ready to leave the bank to follow a trail possibly leading to solving the break-in. Benji swore under his breath and resolutely ignored his flatmate in favour of preventing the plane from taking flight. Consecutive chimes from Benji's phone told him Ethan was getting nervous, when Sherlock located Benji and had started stalking towards him, holding up a surname scribbled on paper, no doubt by Sherlock himself.

"John, there aren't many Van Coons in the area, correct?" Benji glanced at his flatmate and hummed under his breath, giving the impression of someone occupied but still listening, however distractedly. Seb Wilke's secretary was approaching Benji, however, ready to take the computer back in belief that Benji was going to leave with his flatmate shortly, and Benji inwardly and deeply apologised to Ethan before quitting the hacking act altogether and opening up a browser, presumably for checking email. It was to this normal, unsuspicious sight that the secretary took the computer back and smiled at Benji, who thanked her for borrowing the device. Benji shut his phone down so that Ethan's messages wouldn't attract Sherlock's attention, and turned his gaze to his flatmate. "No, there can't be many Van Coons in the area." At the same time, overseas, a military plane had taken off, carrying only one crate of cargo.

The Rabbit's Foot.

xxx New Name, Same Woman xxx

With Sherlock out searching for a reason behind Van Coon's murder – suicide, according to the police so far, but Benji and the young DI in charge of the crime scene had to acknowledge Sherlock's point that Van Coon was left-handed while the killing bullet had come from the right – Benji found a moment to himself. He explained to Ethan through a text that he was forced to abandon hacking or else his cover would be compromised, to which the man understood, reminding Benji how lucky he was to have a teammate and friend like Ethan. Not wishing to test their luck avoiding IMF attention, no more text messages or images were exchanged between the two, and once again Benji's cell phone was silent. Begrudgingly aware of the bills awaiting him at the flat, Benji instead walked to a hospital in search of a job. The chute and hospital sat at convenient distances from each other, so a brisk walk from the flat to the chute, and then the chute to the hospital would allow Benji to arrive at the hospital at a good time in the morning to start work. Balancing hospital work and undercover duties would be challenging, but Benji felt comfortable enough with his doctor side that he'd rather take a job related to medicine than something that would just feel like slipping another mask on. When Benji introduced himself to the woman in charge of interviews, however, he wasn't expecting a simple but pretty brunette to look up from her papers and react equally shocked.

"Benji?" With a warning look and a quick glance around to make sure no one heard, Benji lowered his voice, whispering. "Julia! What are you doing here? No, don't answer that. Did Luther land you a job here? Was America not safe enough for you to stay?" Julia Hunt – no, _Sarah Sawyer_, shook her head, but not in denial. She looked as if she hadn't aged since Benji last saw her, but Ethan's ex-wife had died her hair a lighter brown and allowed it to grow out to and tie it into a ponytail like a ballerina's, so there were notable differences from the American doctor Julia and the American-moved-to-London doctor Sarah. "Luther refused to tell me about IMF, but something must have gone bad enough that he thought moving me to another country sounded good. What are _you_ doing here?" Benji hesitated, not wishing to endanger Julia by sharing grave, secret information. "I'm on a long-term mission. Getting this job is part of the cover," he summarised into two, unrevealing but satisfying sentences. Julia nodded in understanding and thanks. Returning to normal-level voices, Julia raised a brow at Benji's imagined résumé. "A soldier and a doctor," she noted, and, no doubt remembering Benji as only technical support, gave a surprised and impressed look. "Is there anything else you can do?" Benji smiled in accomplishment, proud he was able to claim skill in technological, medical, and field work. "I also played the clarinet in school," he replied innocently.

After getting a job at the hospital, Benji headed home to the flat, feeling a little lighter after seeing a familiar face without having to face the usual worries that followed; just his most recent contact with Ethan tested Benji's capabilities, but working expertly under immense pressure and in any circumstance was what helped define IMF agents. Before going to bed that night, Benji further customised the settings on his phone so that sent images and texts could not be seen without unlocking the phone first; Benji couldn't have Sherlock catching a glance at his messages, after all. It was safer this way, for both flatmates. Especially when Benji was considering the idea of contacting a certain French contract assassin who had been dead for a few years.

—

**A/N: Sorry it's been so long since I've updated! I've been sick for a while, and I had to rewatch Sherlock episodes to get the feel for Sherlock-related fanfiction again. Please leave a comment! ;)**


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